Bridgewood
by wired4romance
Summary: This is Rebecca and Alistair's story from the 1850s. How did they meet? Fall in love? And how did their story end in tragedy? Come, see . . . .
1. Chapter 1

_Readers - I've been inspired by you and the idea of writing Rebecca and Alistair's story, so here is a very short, quick tease. But please let me know what you think. Interested in more? xx -Windflwr_

**Chapter 1 – First Meeting**

Rebecca Reynolds ran from the room and didn't stop running until she was standing on the edge of the cliff above the rocks. It was her place of refuge. The ocean waves were small, dark and distant from the shore at that time of night—correction: early morning, by the last chime of the Ormolu clock above the hearth in the great room she recalled hearing—but she didn't care. The wind and waves didn't judge, they didn't belittle, they didn't scold. They simply were. They gave her room to breathe, a much needed respite from the cloying and humid air of the ballroom, thick with the pungent mix of aromas – a desperate attempt by both men and women to cover the stench of their nervous perspiration as they played the game of trying to impress one another. It was the first public dance of the season, and already (not surprisingly) she'd had enough.

Her younger sister, Isabella, would have scolded her for giving up so soon. Little did she know the magistrate's arrogant son was currently coddling an extremely sore shin in the upstairs closet after dragging her there with him against her will. As if she'd be interested . . .

Rebecca grimaced. He likely wouldn't say a word, but one more rebuff from her and she didn't trust what he would do. Money and authority gave men too much power over women. She smiled. She'd gotten in a good kick, at least. Her un-ladylike penchant for climbing the cliffs had, over the years, toned and strengthened her slight frame to an extent that would surprise most men who thought all women weak and frail and preferred them that way. Of course they did. It gave them even more power.

For that reason, Rebecca knew she'd end up a spinster. This dance, or a dozen more, would make no difference. At twenty-six, she was already considered on the shelf, in any case. One man tonight had actually caught her attention—a new face—but he'd disappeared soon after making his entrance and she'd not seen him again. Too bad. His eyes had held a rare mixture of intelligence, strength, and vulnerability. They'd spied each other from across the room and she'd felt a spark of . . . what? recognition? Surely not, for she'd never seen the tall, dark-haired stranger before in her life. No doubt she imagined their connection and he was off playing cards in the back room with the rest of the men. No, marriage was unlikely to be in her future, although what she wouldn't give to meet a man with whom she could share her thoughts and hopes and dreams for the future. It felt impossible.

If only she'd been born a man, her intelligence and courage would be considered strengths and not met with horror and scoffing.

She sighed and looked toward the north. _There it was again._ That deep, lonely howling sound. She'd thought it a trick of the wind. The beach and rocks along the coast were living, breathing things to her – especially at night – filled with critters of all kinds that only came out in the dark. She should be afraid. A wild boar or worse—smugglers—could be taking refuge in the caverns beneath the precipice on which she stood. She'd certainly discovered enough bones in the caves to believe it was possible. The local children thought there was treasure to be found there, too, but she wasn't so gullible. The only treasure was the peace and acceptance she found from the sea. A broken necklace or coin found along its banks only spelled tragedy to her.

Again, that sound. That was _not _her imagination. Something—or someone—was hurt. Without thinking, she gathered the heavy folds of her overskirt and knotted them high above her bloomers. It would be pointless to attempt to climb down the side of the cliff with them dangling around her ankles. Pointless and extremely foolish. And Rebecca Reynolds was no fool.

A dozen questions flooded her mind as she made her way carefully down the rocky overhang. With courage and a recklessness that would have horrified her quiet, barrister father no end, she dropped the last five feet to the pebbled sand below and narrowed her focus. The hunt was on . . .


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter 2**

Alistair McGregor stood at the top of the landing and scanned the room of warm, swirling bodies. His height usually gave him an advantage over most people, but from this vantage point, he could see the entire room at once and all of the local townspeople milling about the large ballroom. That was good, as it meant the less time he would have to spend among the masses chasing down his prey. If this hadn't been the simplest and most efficient way to find the man he sought, he'd never have come. But time was running out. News of two suspicious murders in the surrounding countryside had reached even his god-forsaken neck of the woods. He'd been planning on making the move, anyway. It was time he discovered just who—and what—he was. And hopefully why. The timing of the little season couldn't have been more perfect. Of course, it meant mingling with the local gentry, something he would otherwise have avoided at all costs.

He sighed. He didn't doubt his presence had already been noted by many of the matrons eager to find their daughters a suitable match at this first-of-the-season public dance. For that reason alone he couldn't wait to escape. Every moment he spent in their presence was a moment too long, too risky. Too inherently dangerous.

There was a time when he'd have eagerly joined in—that happy-go-lucky time before the terrible 'event,' as he liked to refer to it. The night that changed everything. Alistair shook his head. Now was certainly not the place to think on that. Not if he wanted to remain in control—and he must remain in control every second among these innocent, unsuspecting folk.

He pushed the hair out of his eyes. It did no good to mourn what could never be—a normal life. Already his blood pressure was elevated. He closed his eyes a moment and focused. He could do this. He _must _do this. The man he was after, although unknown to him, would surely sense his presence as easily as he himself could do, and give himself away. And then the chase would be on.

The heavy scent of perfume mixed with fresh lilacs washed over him in a nauseating wave. He gasped and quickly shut down that sense, too, breathing through his mouth. The over-stuffed rooms were as gaudy in décor as they were suffocatingly hot. The worst possible place for a man like him. He felt trapped. This was as horrible as it was dangerous.

Nevertheless, his mission must be completed. Ignoring the curious glances as he descended the stairs, he had one moment of distraction. Eyes too big for a small oval face caught his from across the room. Against the balustrade, a petite, dark-haired young woman gazed boldly in his direction. With a flush self-consciousness at the heady contact, every hair on his body angled like tentacles toward her. He'd never in his life had such an instantaneous reaction to a stranger. He felt caught as if in a hunter's trap. His gut clenched; his heart raced. She was lovely. Correction: _stunning_. He knew immediately that she wasn't the target he was after, and yet why such a visceral reaction? He didn't know, and he didn't dare take the time to puzzle it out. If he wasn't on the trail of vicious murderer, he doubted his ability to resist her mesmerizing allure. He turned away just as the hairs on the back of his neck stood straight up. _There_. To the right of him, just passing through that doorway. A tall man, taller than him, turned his head slightly. _Recognition_. Yes. There you are, you bastard.

Alistair's first reaction was to shove through the crowd, but that would have drawn too much attention. He took a quick glance back to see if the lady was still watching. She wasn't. A gentleman had approached her. Good. Better for her if she never laid eyes on him again. With his haughtiest air, he tilted his chin as if the crowd was beneath him and made a beeline to the doorway through which the man had passed. No doubt there was an exit somewhere on the other side. Hopefully, that was where this would end.

It was more difficult getting through the throng than he'd thought. Alistair followed the man's trail out the back, through the kitchen, and then down the sloping, manicured grounds toward the rocky shoreline below the elegant mansion on the bluff. A full moon highlighted the scene and glimmered on the distant water in shimmery waves. The coastline there was still wild and unspoiled, just as he preferred it. A gravel trail led down to the shore in a long, gentle path, but Alistair had no time for that. Approaching the bluff after ensuring the coast was clear, he leaped, the folds of his greatcoat flapping like wings behind him.

The flotsam of a recent storm pushed up against the rocky cliff, and would have made traversing the shoreline difficult for most. Not for him. Or for his quarry, unfortunately.

To the south lay endless beach, but to the north a cavern had been carved into the hillside and before him yawned the entrance to the cave. Being unfamiliar with the area, Alistair didn't know how deep it ran, but his opponent hid inside, he was sure of it.

"You cannot escape me," he called as he stepped inside the entrance.

"I have no quarrel with you!" a man's voice rang out from deeper within.

"But I have one with you, I'm afraid. You prefer weak, helpless people, do you?"

"What are you talking about?"

"The girl. She was only sixteen."

"Who are you—the law?" The man growled low.

Alistair acknowledged it with one of his own. "Just someone who doesn't like senseless killing. And _you _are?"

There was a brief pause, then the man spoke again. "Why I should answer to you, I know not. But you can call me Adam, as I am the first."

That gave Alistair pause. The first? Of how many? He'd assumed he wasn't the only one, but this man's trail was the first he'd picked up of another. Just how deep and far did this lunacy go? He took another step inside.

"Come no closer. You will not like me when I'm cornered."

"I do not like you now. Is that what happened?" he asked, taking a casual step forward. "She cornered you? Or did she reject you?"

Instead of becoming more belligerent, 'Adam' laughed. "They are strangely drawn to the power we exude, are they not? Then they turn in horror and run from it. It isn't fair. What? It has never happened to you?"

"No. And it never will." _God willing_. "Not for me, nor again for you, if I have anything to say about it."

"You dare challenge me? We are the same, yes?! I can smell your animal stench from here."

Alistair hung his head. It was as he feared. Bridgewood's path of destruction was deep and wide. That the elderly physician who'd used him, and obviously others, as guinea pigs for his demented experiments had died recently of pneumonia was his only saving grace. Now it was up to those who survived to stop the madness. If they possibly could. Only time would tell.

"It only gets worse, you know," the man said softly, unraveling Alistair's hopes. "You think you are strong, now. Just wait. Your day will come."

A feeling of dread snaked through Alistair. No. He would die before that day—before becoming more beast than man, as this man had obviously already done.

"You know what you must do when a dog goes mad, right? Shoot it."

Alistair looked into the darkness of the cave. The outline of the man was clear to his extremely sensitive eyes. Was he asking for a mercy killing?

Suddenly Adam laughed. "But first you'll have to catch me!" he yelled and tried to speed past him to the open shore. Alistair was nearly caught off guard. Thankfully, the man was more interested in escape than a fight or else he may have been seriously hurt. As it was, the beast swiped at him with his claws as he passed, tearing a sleeve and cutting razor sharp grooves into his upper arm. Alistair got in one good swipe, himself, as Adam rushed past him, and knew from his yelp of pain that he'd done damage of his own. And then Adam sped down the shore in a four-legged gait that left Alistair shuddering at the sight. There had been whispers in the countryside. The word 'werewolf' had been bandied about more times than he could count. As he listened to the receding howls, he almost believed it. Was that truly his fate, as well?

Keeping watch on his prey, he quickly wrapped his neck cloth around his shoulder tight enough to stanch the bleeding, then was about to take off after him when a noise just in front him stopped him dead in his tracks. From the rocks above, a slight form dropped down to the sand with a gasp, his white leggings bright in the moonlight. Fearing for the boy's safety should Adam turn and see, Alistair squelched his desire to follow the beast and covered the boy with his cloak instead, pressing an arm around his middle and a hand over his mouth, in case he had the idea to scream or some other such dangerous thing. And immediately he realized his error.

Alistair sucked in a breath. The body he held, though short and slight, was no boy, nor even that of a young woman—but a sensual, curving form that was both soft and firm in his accidental embrace—and such a piece of heaven he'd never thought to feel again! A myriad of sensations flooded him. The lips beneath his hand were soft, and warm breath from her nostrils fanned out over his knuckles in quick, jagged breaths.

He tamped down his body's reaction as swiftly as he could and waited a couple of beats before feeling satisfied that Adam had continued on down the shore with no intention of returning. Then without thinking he literally threw the woman from his arms.

She stumbled backward over a stone and went down on one knee in the rocky sand. "Ow!"

"I beg your pardon!"

Brushing off non-existent leaves and debris, she stood to her full height (which was to say, not very tall), hands on her hips. Then she pushed back her hood to reveal dark, silky tresses, and eyes that shot daggers at him.

"You!" They spoke the word simultaneously.

So the brief moment of eye contact at the dance which had produced that powerful pull had not been a figment of his imagination. Away from the crowd in the intimacy of night, it staggered him with its strength. Her reaction told a similar story.

Alistair stammered. "D-did I hurt you?"

"No." She rubbed a knee. "Not that you didn't try. Was it necessary to use such force? I'm hardly a threat to such a giant of a man." Those hands on the hips again. Alistair smiled—something he hadn't done in a very long time—then just as quickly worked to school that idiot reaction from his features. In truth, he'd never felt so entranced and simultaneously intimidated in all his life. "Y-you surprised me. Please forgive me."

"I heard a noise—"

"—and thought to investigate? In the dark of night. Dressed in . . . ."

"A gown? Yes, well, it wasn't planned, I assure you," Disgruntled but not embarrassed, she scratched her head and looked around, then down the shore. "Did you—"

"An animal. I heard it, too. Ran down the shore that way. But you're safe now. He's long gone."

She eyed him again, that curious mixture of expression that said, 'I'm not sure I believe you, but I'll refrain from commenting just yet.' He could get lost in those eyes. Quickly coming to his senses, he remembered his manners. Starting to bow, he said, "Do forgive me, Mistress. I am—"

"Injured! Your arm, the wound is bleeding profusely!"

"What?" He'd nearly forgotten the slash in his upper arm. Now, suddenly, the pain returned in a searing wave.

"What was it, a wolf? Cougar? I've heard of some in these parts. Oh, but it must have been a bear to have mauled you so high!"

_Mauled _was an awfully strong word for such a scrape, and he didn't like the sound of it. He quickly covered his bleeding arm. "It's nothing, I assure you."

"It certainly is not _nothing_!" she argued. "Sir, please let me return you to the house. Our man-servant is quite good at treating wounds. He takes care of all of our horses, as well."

Well, hell. _That _was an uncomfortable thought. Alistair stepped back when she tried to take his arm. "My lady—"

"Reynolds."

"I beg your pardon?" He suspected he would be doing a lot of that if he didn't escape this dangerous woman rather quickly.

"It's Miss Reynolds. Miss Rebecca Reynolds."

_Damn_. And unmarried as well. Could the situation be any stickier? "Alistair McGregor." He finished his bow. "Please, Miss Reynolds. I assure you, I'm fine. You should return to the house at once. Let me escort you to the trail head and I'll be on my way."

She blinked. Yes, he'd obviously realized she'd climbed down the hard way. "But you must come inside, Mr. McGregor. I insist. Your wound should be tended immediately or it could fester."

The only thing festering was his broken heart at being in the presence of such a beauty. _So tempting_ . . . but it could never be. And the longer she remained outside with him, the more dangerous it was for him—and for her—in so many ways. "Miss Reynolds, you must realize we can't return together."

She blinked again and he watched as sanity slowly returned. "Oh."

"Yes, oh. The sooner you return, the sooner I can leave and see to my own injury. For I'm not about to leave you here by yourself."

"I see."

"Yes."

Apparently deciding his words made sense, she rallied. "Then please do escort me to the trail head at once, then give me your direction so that I may call on you tomorrow and verify you are well."

"That won't be necessary."

"I absolutely insist and won't leave until I have your word."

He frowned. The house wasn't fit for visitors yet, but they were at a standoff. He couldn't risk Adam returning with her there, and every minute spent in her presence was sheer torture. "Bridgewood," he said finally.

"Bridgewood? As in Bridgewood Manor?"

"You know of it?"


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter 3**

Rebecca tilted her head at him. "You're staying at _Bridgewood manor?_"

"Yes, ma'am."

"But that house . . . "

"Yes?"

She shook her head. "Never mind. My cousins and I played there as children. We thought it haunted. It was vacant for years, although I had heard an elderly gentleman lived there on and off."

One who was quite reclusive, at that. It was no wonder they thought the property was inhabited only by ghosts of the past. When Alistair learned the astounding news that the doctor had died and bequeathed his estate to him, he traveled there at once. What he found could only be described as sadly neglected. He hadn't ventured into all of the rooms just yet, for fear of what he would find, but he had no doubt there were spirits dwelling within—probably crying out for justice.

"My lady, once again I assure you of my well-being. Let us part here, then, and say our good-night." _Drat_. He'd meant to say 'good-bye,' but a different word had rolled off his tongue in the end. Entrancing Miss Reynolds caught the slip-up and took full advantage.

"Good-night, then, my lord. I will check on you on the morrow."

Before he could respond, she ran off toward the gaily lit dwelling.

* * *

As soon as Rebecca re-entered the ballroom, she was pulled aside.

"Where have you been?" Jessica Breckenridge, her best friend and only confidant besides her beautiful but immature little sister, literally tugged her down the hall into an empty room and closed the door.

"I-I needed some air—"

"Rebecca Reynolds, I know you better than that. A little while ago I saw Caleb Darrington coming out of an upstairs closet—the very closet I saw you enter not long before—and he was rubbing his leg."

"Did he look angry?"

"Well, let's just say I wouldn't want to meet him in an alley this night."

Rebecca glanced about the room. "Is he still here?"

"I saw him leave the house shortly after. I was afraid he was looking for you. Wherever you hid, I assume he didn't find you."

"No. No doubt he ran to his daddy to complain."

"What was it this time? Did he use force?"

"I'm quite all right. Nothing I couldn't handle."

"Obviously."

Rebecca sighed. She would have liked to have taught him a lesson, but Caleb was the sort to not only get angry, but to get even. She didn't relish their next encounter. She waved her arm. "Never mind him."

"Becca, the pressure his father can put on yours could cause you both all kinds of trouble."

"Don't worry, Jess. My father may be meek and mild, but he won't sell me to Darrington for any amount of money or coercion. He knows me too well."

"I'm thankful for that."

"Besides, I've got my eye on someone else."

Jess grabbed her arm. "Say, what? You met someone . . . tonight?"

Rebecca smiled mysteriously. "Perhaps . . . ."

"Oh, no you don't! Tell me all, or I'll go straight to your father and explain who was _really _responsible for that kitchen fire last year."

Rebecca's mouth fell open. "You wouldn't!"

"You know I would. As soon as I do, Isabella will start babbling and the whole story will come out." When Rebecca still looked as if she intended to hold her tongue, she added, "I didn't see you on the dance floor, so just who was the man and where did you go?"

Rebecca realized she had no choice, although for some odd reason she felt strangely reluctant to speak of him. There was something . . . . Finally, she tilted her head at her friend. "Did you see the very tall, dark-haired man that came in—the stranger?"

She watched as the wheels turned in Jess's eyes. "You don't mean that haughty one, do you?"

Rebecca frowned. He hadn't seemed haughty at all to her . . . . "Hmm. I don't think so. Well, in any case, I left the house after running out on Caleb and went down to the beach—"

"At this hour of the night?!"

"You know how I can get. I needed the sea."

Jess clucked her tongue. "One of these days, that penchant for going off on your own in the dead of night will be the death of you, Rebecca Reynolds. What happened?"

She hesitated a moment. "He . . . he was already down there."

Jess gasped. "You met him alone, on the beach, in the _dark_?! And with two murders in the county!"

"Shhhh!" Rebecca paused to listen, but all other sounds were distant, but best not to take risks. She lowered her voice to a whisper. "It was a mistake, obviously. An unplanned encounter on both our parts—so you can stop assuming he followed me out there. He didn't. In fact, I surprised him. And speaking of murders, there was an animal on the beach."

"An animal? Like a wild dog, or—?"

"I didn't see it, but it must have been bigger than that—it injured him—Mr. MacGregor. Alistair MacGregor is his name."

Jess grabbed Rebecca by both arms. "Injured? Where is he now?"

"He wouldn't come in."

When Jess frowned, she continued. "He was a gentleman, Jess. He didn't want me to be seen returning to the house with him. You see? He's perfectly safe."

Jess's lips flattened to a tight line and shook her head. "Safe, huh? You're going to be the death of me, you know that? MacGregor, was it?"

"I'll find out more about him soon. He apparently just moved into the old Bridgewood manor. I intend to call on him tomorrow to ensure he is well."

"_Bridgewood_?" Jess shuddered.

"I need to get back to the ballroom before my sister starts to worry, but what are you doing tomorrow morning, by the way?"

* * *

Left staring after her in the darkness, Alistair pulled the blood-soaked scarf from his sleeve and inspected his wound. The bleeding had nearly stopped, not that it looked any better. Best that he not frighten the other ball-goers and re-enter the party in torn and blood-soaked clothes. He skirted the garden on the north side and hurried to his waiting coach.

"Charles!" he hissed through the darkness.

"Here!" His coachman turned, an un-lit cheroot clenched between his teeth.

"Ready the horses. To the manor. Hurry!"

Charles spit out the cheroot, scrambled up to the boot, and had the coach in motion before Alistair could latch the door. Good man. He was always at the ready. Alistair knew his friend and assistant would have a dozen questions on the tip of his tongue, but he held it in check and did as he was ordered.

As soon as they entered the house, Charles tore off his wig and the uncomfortable groom's uniform he'd been wearing. "Blimey! How do they do it? Everything so tight and itchy!" He turned to Alistair. "And must you call me Charles? It sounds so formal. Only me mum ever called me that."

"As soon as I get on my feet again, financially, I'll buy you a better quality uniform. For now, I'm afraid you'll have to endure it. Appearances are everything to these people."

"Yes, well, me name's Charlie, either way."

Alistair smiled. He'd taken in the younger man after Charlie had found him, dazed and bloody, one night on the streets of city. His knowledge of medicine was more instinctual than from actual learning, but he'd proven himself a willing and able apprentice. More importantly, he'd become a friend—the only friend who'd seen him at his worst and hadn't run. Charlie had a natural curiosity, a fearless resolve, and a reckless abandon for justice and adventure. Being also destitute and orphaned, he was the perfect companion and had willingly agreed to follow Alistair anywhere in exchange for food and a warm, dry bed.

But while Alistair could move around in upper circles with ease because of his schooling and background, Charlie could move just as easily in the bowels and trenches. Together, they made a pretty good team.

Alistair loosened his own neck cloth and hung up his greatcoat before moving into the green salon, which also doubled as his study, and pouring himself a stiff drink.

"You're hurt!" Charlie followed him over to the cabinet and inspected his arm.

"Nothing serious."

"You found him, then? So quickly? I feared we'd be here for weeks before you located the villain."

"I told you, everyone loves a party." _Especially hunters looking for their next prey_, he mused. Where else, but a public dance in the country with all the local gentry attending, could the picking be easier? Although what the man's motives were, he didn't yet know.

"Guess you weren't there long enough to dance, hey?"

"What?" Alistair turned from wrapping his upper arm in a clean bandage.

"I saw them frilly ladies, dozens of 'em, goin' in. I have to admit to feeling a teensy bit envious of you."

"I wasn't there to dance, and you know it. I was thankful to have spotted him right away and able to leave the building so soon."

"Ach, you ain't any fun a'tall." Charlie picked up the white lawn shirt Alistair had discarded and scrutinized the shredded sleeve. "Gore! He's a mean one, eh? What happened? Did you kill 'im?"

"Injured him, although I don't know how badly. He ran off when—"

Charlie looked up when Alistair unexpectedly stopped.

"Uh, I mean, he escaped me and ran off down the shoreline."

"But you seen his face?"

"I did. And he even gave me a name—Adam—although Heaven knows if it's real or an alias. I'll do some checking in town tomorrow. Oh." He suddenly remembered he might have a visitor. "I . . . met a few people there. If anyone comes calling, be sure to turn them away."

"Don't want to get too friendly with the natives, eh?"

"That's right. We're here for a reason, not to socialize."

"But—"

"But?"

Charlie hung his head and Alistair knew what he was thinking. Back in town, he was constantly trying to get him to meet women. A good-hearted lad who too easily saw the best in people, Charlie had a tendency to forget what Alistair was—or had become—as a result of the 'good doctor's' experiment. He would do well to never forget it. Until they found a cure, and there was a big 'if' attached to that hope, getting close to anyone ran a huge risk for all involved.

Alistair patted Charlie on the back with his good arm. "Lad, you know the kind of life I have to live. But that doesn't mean you have to, too. It's a terrible burden you've taken on—agreeing to be my man. I'm appreciative of all your help, but you're free to go at any time. You know that."

Charlie looked at him, and Alistair saw wisdom and suffering in far greater depth than one could imagine a young man having. "Where else would I be goin'?" he asked.

Long ago Charlie had admitted to being 'out of sorts' with the law and other parties 'to remain nameless.' It was one reason Alistair hadn't minded agreeing to the partnership. They both had a hidden past and preferred to keep it that way—at least to others. He wouldn't agree unless the lad knew the truth, though, so he'd told him—every last horrific detail—that he himself knew. Charlie hadn't blinked an eye. In fact, he grinned. And so the partnership had begun. Once, shortly thereafter, trouble came knocking. If Alistair hadn't been there, Charlie would no longer be among the living. Now they both owed each other a debt that bound them together—for, hopefully, a very long time to come.

Alistair hugged him. Charlie didn't like to be touched, but he didn't refuse the brief sign of affection. Just as quickly, he made an excuse to go 'rummage up some grubs' and quit the room.

How much should he tell the lad about Rebecca? Would she come as she promised? Anticipation warred with fear. He felt strongly drawn to her, but would that 'pull' spell disaster for them both? He ground his teeth together. No. Until he could find a cure—and one possibly existed in the old doctor's notes right there in the house, if he could find them—lovely Rebecca must be discouraged from seeking him out at all costs . . . .


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter 4**

Rebecca spent all morning trying to find an excuse to leave the house, but guest after guest kept arriving. Most of them were visiting Isabella—other similar-aged females with their mothers renewing acquaintances made at the dance—but as the senior female in the home, she got roped into hostessing. In the early afternoon, she finally found a break between visitations and ran to her room to gather her things when she heard a commotion below. Suddenly the Reynolds household was in an uproar.

At the sound of shouting, Rebecca came racing out of her bedroom.

"You must calm down, George. Anger won't help the matter." Her father's voice was both firm and soothing.

"The hell it won't," George Finnegan, her father's long-time friend and neighbor, answered. Then, noticing Rebecca and the other female staff for the first time, he hung his head. "I beg your pardon, but how can you tell me to calm down? He's wanted my land for years, and now he found a way to steal it! Don't think you're immune up here on the hill, Eldon. What Royce Darrington wants, Royce Darrington gets."

"He doesn't have a legal leg to stand on, George. It's all bluff and bluster."

"Since when has his High and Mighty ever felt obliged to follow the law?" George shook his finger. "You know I'm right. Just you wait. He wants it all, and he's bound and determined to get it."

"I'll go to the Court immediately and straighten this all out. I'm sure there's nothing to worry over."

George wiped his brow. "I wish I had your confidence."

"It doesn't take confidence, my friend; it takes the _law_." He took George by the elbow and headed him toward the door. "Take a deep breath, do something to take your mind off of it for now. I'll try to have an answer for you by the end of the week."

As soon as the gentleman left, Rebecca rushed down the stairs. "What is it, father?"

Eldon Reynolds turned. "Oh, daughter. Did we frighten you?"

She waved a hand. "No, not at all. But is there trouble?"

"Nothing you need to concern yourself with. It appears I must go to court for a few days. Pack a bag for you and your sister. I'm sending you to your aunt's until I return."

Rebecca froze. _But what about poor Mr. MacGregor?_ She pressed forward on the banister. "Father, that really isn't necessary. I'm perfectly capable of seeing to Isabella while you're gone for such a short time. It's nothing."

He gave her a look over his reading glasses—a very pointed look—and she knew he was recalling the last disastrous time he'd left his daughters to fend for themselves: _chaos_. It wasn't really her fault, not all of it. "I know what you're thinking," she assured him. "but there won't be a repeat—"

"I'm not worried that the two of you will get into mischief. I'm concerned there may be trouble—from others. I saw Caleb pestering you at the party. And who knows how many puppy dogs Izzy has collected after last night. I can't protect the two of you if I'm not here."

"But—"

"No buts. Inform Isabella. As it is, you'll have to travel after dark, and I'm not too happy about that. Better to get on the road as soon as possible."

Rebecca sighed. As Jessica had yet to make an appearance, she scrawled a hasty note and sent it with a footman to her home. Then, under the guise of sending polite greetings to others she'd met the night before, she sent word to the new resident of Bridgewood manor informing him of her concern for his health and her inability to come in person. Even under the cover of night, the man had appeared quite strong and healthy. Surely he wouldn't dare perish from his wound before she was able to attend him? However, she had every intention of escaping her aunt the next afternoon to check.

That done, she set about doing her father's bidding.

* * *

Alistair flipped over restlessly once again and snarled. The sound of his own voice awakened him from his fitful sleep. He sat upright, shoving the sweat-drenched coverlet aside. Full sun poured through the open drapes illuminating deep gouges in the mattress on either side of him. Seeing that, he quickly covered them and dropped his head into his hands. Though he'd been abed for most of the night, his body felt exhausted and not rested in the least. The night's events weighed heavily in his thoughts and apparently his dreams. _Another beast existed_. He'd expected it, of course. Thus, the reason he'd come. But seeing him in the flesh was still disturbing. How many other unfortunate souls had the elderly physician played God with? Once dedicated to the sanctity and preservation of human life, over time the doctor had became a victim of his own brilliant but twisted mind. Rather than use his renowned skills to fight disease and practice medicine, he'd started down another, immensely more dangerous path: improve the human body by infusing it with the superior traits found in animals.

Alistair closed his eyes. To think that he'd once coveted a prized mentoring spot under the man brought a wave of shame. Of course, he'd paid the ultimate price for it when he became the doctor's own guinea pig. Now the man was dead and he had no idea what had actually been done to him.

If there were any clues to be found, though, they would be there in the house. After struggling on his own these last few years in the city, finally he not only had a plan, but hope that answers and a cure could be found for his condition. And a new purpose: track down the other, out-of-control beast Doctor Bridgewood had obviously created, Adam, and put a stop to his reign of terror.

He must focus all his energies on those two tasks.

Then why did his mind keep returning to a pair of dark amber eyes and darker hair? _Rebecca_. Even her name was entrancing. Truth be told, seeing the other man with animal characteristics, while fascinating and horrific at the same time, wasn't what kept him from his rest. It was the jump of her pulse when he'd grabbed her from behind; the catch of her breath when she'd spotted his injured shoulder; the sweet, full bow of her lips drawn down with concern. _For him_.

_Good God_. He'd never been so affected by a woman. They'd hardly spent five minutes in each other's company and yet the fullness of those moments could span eternity. Alistair flipped over again, angry now. He didn't have a right to think of her, much less engage his undeserved fantasies. It would be wrong on so many levels to encourage her interest-more wrong than what had even been done to him. And yet he felt powerless to escape her pull.

He twisted again and finally swung out of bed, his head still heavy, and went in search of Charlie. If he didn't get help now, a headache the size of the Americas would send him spiraling into a rage. And that he must avoid at all costs. He found the younger man nursing a steaming mug of dark liquid at one end of the long kitchen table.

Alistair glanced around the neglected room before pulling a chair out for himself. "I'll take a cup of the same, if you have another," he said.

Charlie had one at the ready and slid it his way, eyeing him with suspicion.

"What?" Alistair asked him.

Charlie shrugged. "Your head hurtin' again? I ain't never seen you sleep so late. You didn't catch the ague from that wound, did ya? Who knows what kind of disease that animal might've been plagued with. Folks expire from less."

Alistair grinned painfully. "I assure you, I'm not about to 'expire' and leave you here to face the gentry alone. You know I'd never do that. And he was a man, just like me." He stood and stretched. Correction: a _beast _like him. "It must be this clean country air. So light, it hardly feels like you're breathing."

Charlie raised his tankard. "I'll drink to that. We'll most likely be dead in a week." He eyed him over the rim of his cup. "No visitors came a'callin' yet, by the way."

"Thank God." Alistair let out the breath he'd been holding. While it would be utter foolishness for the lady to approach his home, a part of him craved beyond reason another whiff of her tantalizing fragrance. And that's what terrified him. What would it feel like to touch that lovely cheek, run his fingers through her hair? And if he did, could he withstand the mad rush of his own desires that would surely result? Could _she_? Would that they both could give in to such folly and not be consumed by its flame. _Forbidden_—that's what she was. He inwardly sighed. One could survive for years off a dream alone, couldn't one?

"We need supplies." Oblivious to his inner turmoil, Charlie stood.

Alistair did likewise. "Indeed. The cupboards are bare and . . . filthy." He rubbed a finger along the dusty edge of the wooden table. "I'm not exactly sure what this is," he looked down at his mug, "but we need more of it."

"I planned on taking the cart into town today."

"Good. We need just about everything. See if you can inquire about a houseman, too, if you would. Part time, only. Someone to take care of the daily chores, but live off-site. And a cook. No young females, but I'd be okay with an older couple, if you can find one. I don't plan to open the whole house, but I'm eager to delve into the books in the study and library. The entire place could use a good scrubbing. Just be sure to instruct them never to enter my room."

"Aye. It's insulted, I am, that you don't appreciate me fine cooking, but I'll do me best to find what you need."

Alistair laughed and watched him go. Leave it to Charlie to sound disgruntled and so loyal in the same breath.

The day was clear and pleasant, so after spending several hours clearing a path to the large desk in the study (a huge task in and of itself), Alistair took a break and headed into the late afternoon on his horse—the only companion he prized besides Charlie—and spent the afternoon exploring the hills and surrounding area. A single lane road was the main supply route between villages, so while his friend headed toward the nearest town, he rode in the opposite direction. Charlie would no doubt find an inn for dinner, have a few drinks, and take a bed for the night before heading back home. That left him the evening free to explore.

Alistair began at the shoreline hoping to pick up a trail. Unfortunately, the tide was in again, and the sand covered in water. Disappointed, he began the long journey back to the manor.

He was still miles from Bridgewood when he picked up a scent.

* * *

"This is all your fault, you know." Isabella's high-pitched voice grated.

"How is it _my _fault? I've been packed for hours."

"You should have told me sooner that Jonathan would be at home. That completely changed what I needed to bring."

Rebecca inwardly rolled her eyes and thought of the not two but _three _valises stacked atop the carriage for Isabella and the single small one of hers.

"You know how Auntie loves us to dress for dinner."

"This isn't a social call, Izzy. The gowns you brought were hardly necessary. All it served was to make us late. I hope Henry got word of our belated arrival to her. She'll be worried sick."

"And tell Father, no doubt."

Rebecca _wished _her aunt would tell their father! She sighed. Unfortunately, Aunt Helen and Isabella were two birds of a feather: simple and unabashedly concerned with little else besides gossip and fashion. Perhaps she should have packed at least one nicer gown, herself. She tried to recall just what it was she'd hastily grabbed.

Her thoughts wandered to that, but weariness and the gentle jostle of the carriage lulled her into a semi-conscious state. She'd hardly slept a wink. Not only had Caleb Darrington's smug arrogance rattled her, but her encounter on the beach with Alistair MacGregor had consumed her thoughts and imaginings until nearly daybreak. She started to drift off. Isabella, bored with her lack of conversation, had already succumbed. It was the sudden jolt of the carriage that awakened them both and literally threw Rebecca off her seat.

"What is it?" Isabella asked.

There was shouting outside—one of the voices clearly being that of their groomsman. "Hush! I don't know." Other voices, dark and unfamiliar, added to the confusion. Isabella started to push aside the curtain, but Rebecca slapped her hand away. "Be still!"

What happened next would remain a blur. Their groomsman, Jason, was clearly agitated and jostling the coach as he struggled to get the horses under control. Rebecca risked one quick look, but aside from the flame of a several torches held high in the air, the strangers were only shadows in the night. More shouting, then a shot followed quickly by another! The first had a deep, long-chambered bang. Then Jason had fired his own pistol. That was followed by a flurry of gunfire. The pair of horses started to panic and then she felt herself falling . . . .

When she came to, which had to have been only moments later, Isabella was beneath her on the carriage door, which now faced the ground, still as a mouse. She almost cried out, but then she heard it—an otherworldly series of growls combined with shrieks of terror. And then there was quiet.

She waited, counted to one hundred, then waited again. Nothing. Finally, she risked a move and jostled Izzy's arm. "Isabella?"

Her sister didn't respond. Rebecca sucked in a sharp breath, then thought to put her cheek to her sister's back. She could hear her steady heartbeat and feel the slow rise and fall of her lungs. She breathed a sigh of relief. Although she wasn't able to see in the dark, if Isabella had hit her head when the coach turned, as she herself had nearly done, she was alive but out cold. She felt around her sister's head. No blood, thankfully.

Still trying to get her own racing heart under control, Rebecca was most concerned for her driver. She thought she heard a groan outside. Whispering a prayer that it was indeed Jason who was moaning and not one of the attackers, she carefully pushed back the flap of the window curtain and peered into the darkness. Upon the road, a single sputtering torch illuminated the eerie scene. And out from one end of the front side of the overturned coach jutted someone's leg—Jason's!

Two other figures lay still as death on the road beside him, but Jason was moving. She started to push herself through the window, but the feeling that someone—or something—was still out there was overwhelming. She shrunk back into the darkness of the vehicle. The horses had been momentarily stunned into silence and were still attached to the coach. Was that twin yellow glow from the woods a set of eyes that watched her? She shivered. _Animal_. She remembered the sound she'd heard on the beach. Whatever had mauled Mr. MacGregor so viciously was still out there. Her heart still wildly pounding, she dropped down into a ball and waited for another count. That's when she heard the heavy clatter of hooves pounding their way toward them.

* * *

Alistair had just led his horse up the hill from a stream when he saw the two men, dressed in dark, rough clothing, sauntering down the road on their horses. They sounded drunk, coarse, and up to no good. He stood still, hoping to avoid their notice and be on his way in the opposite direction, when a coach rounded the corner far ahead. He ducked back into the shadow of the woods to observe, but he had a bad feeling about it. Just as he suspected, as soon as the strangers heard it, they turned their attention toward the slowly rolling carriage and pulled out their guns. Then they raced toward it.

Without giving it another thought, he tied Chameleon to the nearest tree and ran toward the scene. By the time he got there, the men had already blocked the vehicle and were taunting the coachman. The gutsy driver was having none of it. When one of the villains fired a shot, he immediately shot back. Alistair then watched in horror as the carriage horses bucked, tried to bolt from their strappings and reared up.

It was the heartbeat he heard first—a sudden lurch and then a rapid staccato—and vaguely familiar. Then it hit him—_Rebecca_! Without a doubt he knew she was in the coach.

His adrenalin spiked. Before he could stop himself, he jumped the first man, throwing him to the ground so violently he heard the crack of bone as his head hit the rocky earth. The second man then charged him as well, but before he could dispatch him, the carriage horses bucked again and flailed in such a panic the coach began to roll.

Alistair sent the second man flying in a blood-chilling scream, then released the frightened horses before they injured themselves. As the sounded of their galloping hooves faded into the night, he realized whoever was in the coach was stirring. He had only moments to decide what to do.

He checked the condition of the thieves: they were both dead. The coachman was moaning, but alive. He then looked at his own clothing. Since he'd surprised the men, they hadn't had time to fight back. His clothing was neither torn nor bloody, thankfully. He returned to his horse, mounted it, and road back toward the overturned coach as if he were just coming upon it.

The gentleman riding toward them on horseback had obviously not been at the scene when it happened. Rebecca prayed another prayer that he was friendly and boldly maneuvered herself out of the window. Isabella was starting to moan—a good sign. But the blood on the road near her driver was of great concern.

"Jason!" She stumbled over to him, surprised to find her legs so weak they could barely hold her slight weight. "Jason!"

He groaned again as she watched the other rider approach. She grabbed Jason's pistol and held it high.

"Come no further!" she shouted.

"Is anyone hurt?" came the answer in a concerned voice—a very distinctively deep and familiar voice at that. _Alistair MacGregor's_!

"My lord? Oh, thank God! Please help me. My driver's been shot and my sister is hurt!"

"Miss Reynolds?"

* * *

"You're an angel sent from Heaven to save us."

Rebecca Reynolds sat on the stair of the carriage, now righted, a blanket wound about her, watching him. Alistair chanced a brief glance her way. By the grace of God, Charlie had found help and decided to head home early and came upon the scene just as he was trying to figure out how to get the vehicle upright without giving away his strength.

The younger Miss Reynolds was resting on the ground—a blanket beneath her and his greatcoat as covering—just a few feet away. He'd examined her head. She was still unconscious, but resting peacefully. Rebecca, shaken and no doubt bruised but otherwise unharmed, kept up a steady stream of conversation. Her voice sounded uncomfortably nervous, and as he sensed the tension in her jaw he knew instinctively she was still in shock. He wouldn't bet she was normally so talkative. The sultry texture of her voice soothed him, though, and he welcomed the chatty banter.

As the older couple helped put the scattered contents of the carriage back in some order, he saw to the wounded. She commented on his doctoring skills as he examined her sister and Jason; on the weather—lots of words about the weather; on the skill and bravery of her groomsman, his family and life ambitions. Charlie was charmed and chatted back to her.

Alistair felt a small stab of jealousy. How he wished he could so easily converse like that with such a beautiful woman. With _any _woman, for that matter. There was a time, it seemed, when that had been possible. No more.

"You seem to know what you're doing," she commented, her large eyes following his every move.

Charlie grinned. "A'course he do! An extremely skilled physician is our MacGregor!"

Rebecca gasped. "Truly?"

Alistair shook his head. "I _used _to practice."

"But no more?"

His eyes briefly touched hers.

"Not since he came into his 'heritance," Charlie supplied helpfully.

"Ah, I see. Bridgewood. Are you a relative of the previous owner?"

Alistair ignored the question and moved farther away. "Charles, help me over here."

With Charlie and the other man's help, they moved the bodies out of sight, righted the vehicle and collected the spooked horses, although one of the coach wheels was broken beyond repair. Charlie dug through some of the supplies he'd just purchased and was able to offer bread and a round of cheese to everyone.

"Is it too much to hope that another coach will be by anytime soon?" Alistair asked the group at large.

"Probably not until mornin'" the groomsman answered, his expression somber. "I think I can ride now. I'll go for help." He started to push himself up.

"Stay down," Alistair ordered. "You're in no condition to ride anywhere."

Charlie sidled up to him and whispered. "Think we can make enough room in the back o' the wagon?"

Alistair eyed the tiny cart. They may be able to make room for one—that was all. He turned to Rebecca. "How far to your destination?" It was the first time either of them acknowledged that she'd been traveling with enough luggage to go away for days, if not weeks.

"We were headed to my aunt's. As we got such a late start, she's still several hours ride from here."

That wouldn't do.

"Please, my lord. My sister—"

"Yes." He agreed immediately. The young woman needed a warm bed and a woman's attention. "Charles, was there an inn in town?"

"Full." Charlie shook his head. "That's why I headed home. Be closer to the manor from here, though, don't 'cha think?"

Alistair sucked in a breath. _Rebecca, in his home_? He took a calming breath. It was the only choice.

Jason stood. His wound had bled a lot, but was superficial at most. He insisted on riding ahead to the aunt's to tell them of their delay, and saddled one of the carriage horses. The other was limping. They rearranged the supply cart to make room for the sister in back, but the three adults filled the seat. That only left Chameleon. _And Rebecca._


	5. Chapter 5

_Ya'll-I humbly apologize for being so long in updating. Real life intruded for a time, lol. Hope you've had a good week. xx Here you go..._

**Chapter 5**

The middle of the road in the dead of night was no place for questions. Or indecision. Charlie raised his eyebrows at him.

"Go," Alistair told him. "We'll take Chameleon and follow at a slower pace. Get Miss Reynolds' sister to the manor as quickly as you can."

As Charlie nodded and headed off in the direction of Bridgewood, Alistair turned and took in the lady before him, and once again was shaken by his body's reaction to her. Those mesmerizing eyes searched his.

"Are you able to ride?" he asked finally. "Chameleon make look menacing, but he's a kitten at heart, especially toward women. I'll walk alongside." Without waiting for agreement, he scooped her up and placed her onto the horse's back, but when she refused to grab the reigns, he looked up at her.

She stroked the horse's mane. "Of course I can ride, my lord, but surely this great beast of a horse can bear both our weight? I'll not ride alone while you, who are injured yourself," she said with a glance at his shoulder, "are left to walk." She started to slide off Chameleon's back. Alistair grabbed her arm.

She gasped and both of them froze.

"I beg your pardon," he said after several beats, and immediately removed his hand.

Rebecca watched the man before her turn and look anywhere but at her. At the touch of his hand she could have sworn she'd seen a spark of fire in his eyes, although that was most certainly imagined. Yet there was something . . . _elemental _between them. She'd felt it the first time their eyes met in the ballroom, then down on the beach, and again just now. Why did he turn away? A man of his looks and intelligence should have an endless supply of confidence, especially where females were concerned. Lord knew she was acquainted with enough men who overflowed with it. And yet this one . . . was he _shy?_ Yet he'd taken ample command of the situation on the road and dealt with her sister and Jason with such exceeding expertise, she couldn't fathom it. No, a mild and reserved demeanor didn't suit Alistair MacGregor. He exuded power and strength.

Seeing his reticence, she picked up the reigns and nudged the horse into a slow walk. "You never answered my question."

"My lady?"

She sighed. "_Rebecca_, please. Were you and the recently departed Dr. Bridgewood related?"

It was a moment before he replied. "Acquainted . . . for a time. We'd parted ways after a particularly trying . . . incident. I was as surprised as anyone to learn his entire estate had been left to me."

"How odd! Yet you left your practice and moved here. If you had no feelings for the man, why did you not just sell the place?"

Alistair looked into the middle distance. "Although Bridgewood and I had our differences and separated under uncomfortable circumstances, I admired his early work." He turned to her with a slight smile. "I hope to discover some of his research here. If not, perhaps I'll become a gentleman farmer."

"Oh, but you're so young! Think of the good you could do as a physician. There are many here who could benefit from another doctor in their midst. I know I am grateful beyond words for your help this night. My driver no doubt owes you his life, and my sister—"

"Miss Reynolds—"

"_Rebecca_."

"_Miss Reynolds—_"

"Had we been left alone on that road, I'm terrified to think what might have happened."

The cart in front of them disappeared around the bend in the distance and suddenly Rebecca became aware of how shockingly alone they were. In the dark. She studied the woods lining the road and felt a cold chill snake through her body. The horse plodded along.

"My lord—A-Alistair?" The name felt awkward and wonderfully intimate at the same time.

"Yes?" His voice was a low rumble beside her.

"The men who attacked us—"

"Thieves. Of the worst sort." He waved her concern away. "They passed me on the road earlier. Give no thought to their fate, my lady. They had only ill intentions."

"But . . . Jason didn't kill them."

Alistair looked up sharply. Still in shock though she might be, Miss Reynolds was no simpering, weak female. Of that he was certain. She'd scaled that cliff in the dark as if she'd done it a thousand times, and he'd felt the strength of her core when he'd held her. But her voice trembled now.

"It was the animal, wasn't it?"

He watched her scan the moon-lit woods on either side of them.

"I saw the claw marks—just like on your shoulder. Are we safe? I mean, what if he's still out there, _watching_—"

He studied her. She was clutching the reigns as if hanging on for dear life. "Rebecca, are you all right?"

She shook her head and laughed but it came out as a gasp. "I don't know what's wrong with me. It's not that cold out and yet I'm shivering and can't seem to hold on—"

Alistair kicked himself. How had he failed to notice? Her calm, easy banter from earlier was just a façade. The rigid posture of her back and her white-knuckled fists betrayed her fear. She was barely managing to sit up straight, and cold as ice. He looked down the long road and knew there would be no help from that quarter. The cart was too far ahead. He swore under his breath and made his choice—not that there was any real choice to be made—and swung up behind her surrounding her with his cloak and body heat. They both sucked in a breath at the contact.

"You need have no fear. I will allow nothing and _no one _to harm you or your sister," he said fiercely.

Rebecca stiffened. Then, by slow degrees—and perhaps plain exhaustion—she sagged into his embrace.

All Alistair could do was breathe. Other than their brief contact on the beach, he hadn't really held a woman since before the 'incident.' But this wasn't just any woman. Without understanding why—and by all that was holy, he had no right to even think it—but at some base level he instinctively knew she was _his_.

From their earlier contact, he recognized how dangerous even the thought of that was—to her. While she saw him as savior, he was little better than the raiders who lay dead on the side of the road. One moment's loss of control and she'd be as lifeless as they. He seared that image into his brain and let it fuel his resolve. It took a will of iron to keep his hands and thoughts to himself. And a heavy toll. An hour later, even Chameleon sensed his heightened tension.

Yes, one tiny jump in his adrenalin, and—_No_. He'd slit his own throat before harming this mystical creature who trusted him with her life and had literally melted into his warmth.

Strands of her silky locks tickled his face and set every hair on his arms at attention. _Oh, Rebecca Reynolds, you have no idea what you're getting yourself into._ And neither did he.

* * *

They rode in silence. While at first the dark and isolation had been terrifying, now it felt private, intimate. _Sensual_.

Surrounded by the warm embrace of his cloak, Rebecca closed her eyes and let the great horse's rhythm lull her into a place where time and events no longer existed. Only the two of them riding together. This man made her feel many things, but none of them was fear. The way he held her was neither too tight nor too loose, too familiar or too distant. Just . . . tantalizing. Inordinately satisfying, and yet she wanted so much more.

A million questions danced at the end of her tongue, but none made an appearance out of her mouth. Where did he hail from? What family did he have? What research was he after and why? What did he treasure? What did he hate? What were his passions? And why was he uncomfortable around her? Or was it just _all _women?

Either his horse was psychic or Alistair MacGregor guided him with such sleight-of-hand commands that it was as if he and the creature were one. But all too soon it came to an end. His softly spoken words roused her out of her reverie.

"We're here."

A single set of lantern sconces illuminated the double-wide entryway. Beyond that, she could see very little in the darkness but the vague impression of ancient stone covered in a pattern of ivy climbing the walls of the two-story manor house.

The cart full of goods sat forgotten near the stairway, the horse still tethered to it, rooting quietly at the ground for something to eat.

Behind her, Alistair MacGregor grunted in disgust. He began to dismount when the door flew open and his single man-servant, Charles, bounded out.

"Your sister's resting peacefully in the upstairs bedroom, Miss."

"Oh, thank you, sir!"

"Where did you put her?" she heard Alistair ask him under his breath.

"First chamber of the north wing. Mrs. Millhouse helped put the room to rights and is with her now."

Alistair gathered 'Millhouse' must be the surname of their newly acquired servants he had yet to formally greet. He nodded. "Prepare another chamber for Miss Reynolds then see to the horse," he directed, swung a leg over the back and dropped down to the earth. Then he reached up and lifted the lovely and still satisfyingly warm Miss Reynolds to the ground. At least he'd done that much for her.

"You'll no doubt want to see your sister right away. I'll take the cart and return to the coach for your belongings."

Rebecca grabbed his arm. "Oh, please don't leave us." When he looked startled, she added. "I-I mean, my sister may yet have need of you. And while Isabella may think she can't survive a day without her gowns, I assure you there's nothing there to warrant you returning at such a time of night with danger in the area.

"Miss Reynolds—"

"_Rebecca_. Please indulge me, my lord. I've been terrified enough for one night. I don't wish to spend it the rest of it worrying over you."

Alistair stared. Worrying over _him_? He searched her face. Yes, she was no longer in shock but she did look exhausted from worry. He reluctantly nodded and offered his arm. "Please excuse the sorry state of my demesne. We've only recently arrived and the Millhouses are the first help I've hired—"

"My lord, if you can show me to my sister and a bed, any bed, you could live in a dungeon and I'd happily forgive you."

His gut clenched. She meant her words in kindness, but she had no idea what they did to him. _Any _bed?

* * *

After seeing to their guests, unloading the cart and showing the older couple to some temporary quarters in a bunkhouse just off the estate, Alistair headed into the study and poured himself a drink.

Charlie found him there not long after.

"How in _hell_ did this happen?" Alistair spoke without turning. "I have not one but _two _young, beautiful females under my roof."

"Amazin', ain't it? That Miss Rebecca—I think she's got an eye for you."

Alistair swiveled around in his chair. _Not a damn thing he could do about it! _"This is nothing to joke about, Charlie. I should have left them at the side of the road. They'd have been immensely safer. Someone would have come along eventually."

"Gor, how can ye say such a thing, Doc? You were the only one capable of saving them from the likes of them thievin—"

Alistair's eye glowed with a rush of anger.

Charlie ignored him. "An you couldna done it, anyway, being the gen'lman you is—"

"A 'gen'lman' who kills people in anger at the drop of a hat! Something you should definitely keep in mind, _Charles_. And I told you not to call me 'Doc.'"

"Well, blast, the truth be out now anyway, hey? Besides, you didn't like 'milord,'" Charlie grumbled, ignoring the threat.

"Why not Alistair? That _is _my name."

Charlie cringed. "Ach, that's too bloody high flown for my tastes. How 'bout Al?"

Alistair growled and Charlie snickered. "Doc it is, then." At a second growl, he picked up his hat. "I'll be goin' to see about that coach, now, I guess." He looked pointedly at his friend's glass, but Alistair ignored him, swiveling back around. Charlie left on a laugh.

* * *

Rebecca listened to Isabella's soft, rhythmic breathing. She had roused for a few moments, then fallen back to sleep, but at least it was a peaceful slumber. If only she could do the same. Although she'd told Mr. MacGregor—Alistair—that she was exhausted, sleep just wouldn't come. She'd lain down beside her sister on the bed for a time, but no matter how hard she tried, she couldn't shut her eyes or turn off her very active brain. _Yellow eyes glowing from the woods. Otherworldly sounds. Gunfire, and shrieks of terror._ It was all too much.

Mr. MacGregor had come in once to check on Isabella, but it had been very brief. Too brief. After that, Mrs. Millhouse had seen to their needs, although a bit begrudgingly. The woman didn't seem too happy to be there and had muttered repeatedly that this was no place for 'innocent young females of obvious breeding,' whatever that meant. Not like they'd invited themselves or anything! How dare she be rude to her new employer when he'd been the picture of kindness to them. She sighed and shook off her frustration. It only fueled her negative thoughts.

Finally, she lit another candle with a nearby taper and headed out of the room. There must be books or a library _somewhere _in the huge house. Finding the end of the dark hallway, she headed down the stairs.

At the bottom, she scanned the wide space. To the left, a single door, slightly ajar, boasted a soft glow beneath it, the only sign of life. Someone must have left a candle burning. Her father often did that as both he and she were poor sleepers and frequently sought reading material in the wee hours. She couldn't count the number of times they'd run into each other coming or going.

She entered and clicked the door closed behind her and held up her light. A dark, rumbling voice spoke from the darkness.

"You shouldn't be here."

Rebecca jumped so, the candle gutted and went out, leaving just the glow from the fireplace for illumination.

"Go home, Georgie. I told you—I can't give you what you need."

_Georgie?_ She was pretty sure his man-servant's name was Charlie. "My lord?"

His dark form rose from the chair near the hearth and came toward her. The soft clink of a glass on stone as he set it down said he'd been drinking. The man was immense, and in the shadows even larger. Rebecca took a step back but found herself against the now-closed door.

"I've done everything I can to warn you away. Why won't you listen?"

"B-b-but, I just—"

"Don't you understand? I don't have the strength to stay away."

She smelled his warm breath, laced with liquor, as he loomed over her. Realizing he wasn't in his right mind and might not know who she was or what he was doing, she straightened and held a hand out. But before she could speak his lips were on her temple, searing a trail of fire past her cheek and down her neck. Her entire body shivered.

Rebecca hadn't experienced that kind of heart-pounding passion ever in her life—and her brief life had included a number of suitors and stolen kisses. But none like this. Elemental. Primordial. _Pure desire_.

Before she could speak, his lips covered hers and his hands wound around her middle, drawing her close. A shocking range of sensations overwhelmed her. She couldn't help it—she groaned. At the sound, he pulled away just slightly, breathing hard. Her eyes half closed, she had only a faint impression of yellow light flashing around them before he put his forehead to hers. But that didn't make any sense. She faced the fire and the only ambient light in the room, not he.

"I know what you want, but you don't understand what you do to me," he said, and with a grunt, tore himself away. "Go. Escape while you can."

When she didn't react fast enough, he roared. "_Run!_"

* * *

Rebecca opened her eyes. Had she fallen asleep? The coach was pitch black but she could hear her sister moaning. _Raiders! Shots in the night. Men yelling angrily. Then a guttural growl followed by screams of terror. _She wanted desperately to move, to run, but felt frozen. If she remained still as a statue, would it pass them by, or could he sense she was there? She frowned. He? When had the frightful animal become a _he_?

Her sister made another noise and she started to panic. _No!_ He'd hear them!

Just then a hand touched her hair and she sat up with a gasp. Isabella blinked at her from the bedcovers.

"Oh! You're awake. Thank heavens."

Isabella started to move, then grunted in pain and reached for her head. "Ow."

"Dearheart, does it still hurt? You hit your head."

Isabella blinked again and scanned the dimly lit and unfamiliar room. "On what? Where are we?" She frowned in distaste. "This doesn't look like Aunt Helen's—"

"You're safe and being cared for; that's all that matters." Rebecca hugged her sister. "There were thieves on the road. The coach overturned. Don't you remember?"

Isabella endured the smothering for only a moment, then pushed her sister away and studied her more critically. "Your hair is a mess," she said.

_Leave it to Isabella to point out her shortcomings at such a time._ Her world revolved around fashion. Rebecca self-consciously smoothed her hair back with a hand. She hadn't meant to fall asleep. Or, wait. Had it been a _dream _that she'd wandered down the stairs into that dark and dangerous lair? She flushed deep red at the thought.

"Why are you blushing?"

"What?" Rebecca straightened. "I-I'm just so happy you're awake and talking! You've been asleep for forever." Soft light filtering through the window indicated it was morning. She jumped up. "You must be famished. I'll go and see what I can find."

Before her sister could protest, she ran from the room.


	6. Chapter 6

**Chapter 6**

Rebecca ran blindly down the hallway. By the light of morning, the manor house didn't seem nearly as dreary and depressing as her sister would make it sound. It had a certain kind of understated charm. But it was obvious the place had been vacant for some time and in need loving attention. She wasn't so sure Mrs. Millhouse was up to the task.

Her sudden movements reminded her body of the awkward angle she'd slept in the chair. She rubbed her sore neck and slowed. A set of four portraits lined the wall, each a generation apart by the difference in clothing styles. She hadn't seen the elderly Dr. Bridgewood too many times, but the man in the most recent one looked familiar, albeit much younger than she'd known him, and had to be the recently deceased doctor. The family portrait, which included a woman and two young boys, looked happy and very normal. The boys, both with dark hair, looked like any two young males their age, which she guessed to be around eight and ten years old. Not impressed with the artist's talent, Rebecca sniffed. Either the painter was simply poor at his craft or the boys were from a prior marriage, as the family resemblance was not very strong. She sighed and moved on. Of course there would be none of Alistair, as he was not the man's relation, but how she would have loved to have found a portrait of him!

The name Georgie suddenly sprang to mind with a jolt. Who was she? A lady love? A former patient? _Wife?_ That thought made her heart heavy. Dare she ask? And if she did, would the handsome but decidedly distant young physician answer her? She wondered. Yes, while Bridgewood was a mystery, even more so was the manor's current occupant. The puzzle that was Alistair MacGregor grew with every delicious minute, but thank heavens for such a delightful distraction. She hadn't been this interested in something or someone since an empty dinghy had washed ashore and Billy Madison said it belonged to the crew of a merchant vessel said to have gone down in a storm some twenty years earlier, murdered by pirates.

Thinking of murders, she spared a thought for poor Aunt Helen, no doubt worried sick over their delayed arrival. Who knew how Jason had spun their incident on the road? Hopefully, he'd told her they'd receive expert assistance—by a physician, no less!—and were being well cared for by the new owner of Bridgewood. Helen would be intrigued to know a young, unmarried male of some stature had moved into the area. She would eventually send men to investigate, that was certain, if she didn't come herself. It was only a matter of time before they would arrive and she and Isabella would be spirited off. That being the case, she had better waste no time in learning what she could about the newest doctor in town.

Rebecca continued down the long staircase. The kitchen should not be hard to find. From what she had seen the night before, there were only two wings to the house with the common rooms in the middle. She stopped. Each side looked similar to the other. Were it not for the fact that the other wing remained closed off, dark and dusty, a person could easily get turned around.

Not that she had that as an excuse. No, she had to face the fact that her midnight expedition had been no dream. The study, which she had mistaken for a library last night, was in the exact position she recalled, although now the door was shut tight. She sidled up to it. Was he in there, or still abed after drinking so late into the night?

Again, she felt the heat of a blush creep over her face and shook herself. Men often forgot what they did whilst drinking, did they not? And if not, certainly Mr. MacGregor was too much a gentleman to speak of their accidental encounter. She fanned her face. Please, dear Lord, may it be so.

She heard voices and was about to lean in closer when the door opened inward and she practically fell into Mrs. Millhouse's arms. Mr. Millhouse was close behind, followed by Alistair MacGregor. The white sleeves of his dress shirt were pushed up as if he'd been hard at work for hours already. Did the man not sleep at all?

"I'll see what I can do, Alfred," he was saying, "but it may take some time." At the sight of her, he froze.

The Millhouses stared at Rebecca. Rebecca stared at Mr. MacGregor. "Oh! M-my lord! I was just—"

"My lady? How fares your sister this morn?" he asked politely, looking everywhere but directly at her.

Mrs. Millhouse frowned. "I'll see to the young miss, milord."

"She is well, thank you," Rebecca answered him. "Isabella is awake and hungry. I came down to see if I might beg a cup of broth for her."

"Certainly. Or something more substantial, if she's up to it. I should have thought to send something up sooner—for the both of you. Mrs. Millhouse?"

"Right away, milord." The housekeeper, sour face firmly in place, headed off toward the kitchen, while the silent but more respectful Mr. Millhouse merely tipped his hat and headed out the front door, already set on a task. That left the two of them alone. Again.

"As soon as your sister has eaten, I'll be up to check on her."

"Thank you." Rebecca waited. Again, avoidance. The man looked like he would rather be anywhere but there. When she made no move to leave, he finally met her eyes.

"Is there . . . is there something else I can do for _you?_"  
_  
Heavens. What a loaded question!_ "Oh, uh." Rebecca peered into the study again then stopped. _Bad idea._ Memories—dark and seductive—came flooding back. She cleared her throat. "I was . . . hoping you might have some books . . . ?"

* * *

Alistair MacGregor spun away and scanned the room still alarmed at how her presence affected him but relieved to have a task—anything—to stop him from blindly reaching out and dragging her into his arms. After last night's mistaken kiss, the blur of his alcoholic stupor had swiftly burned off, and he'd spent the rest of the night prowling the rooftop seeking calm-and the strength not to go to her. All she'd come for was a book, he reminded himself. He would find one if it killed him.

Yes, morning's light had brought clarity, a welcoming chill, and shame. Oh, he'd known who she was after the first touch. Awareness, coal-fire hot and seductive, had driven him to ignore it, damn the consequences. Now he would pay for that folly. That she hadn't run screaming from the house, dragging her younger sister with her, was amazing in and of itself. Now she stood before him politely inquiring of reading material. He shook his head.

In truth, had he perished in the night, he would have died a happy man. Rebecca Reynolds was everything a woman should and could be: soft, warm, sweet smelling, honest, and with an inner light that fairly sparkled with life.

He stole a glance at her. The pretty blue of her dress—the only garment she currently had—was even more beguiling in the sunlight. And those eyes. _Damn. _Was everything he remembered from last night real? If so, he was in deep, deep trouble.

Taking a slow, calming breath, he scanned the shelves and desktop before him, but it was pointless. Financial logs and estate ledgers were the only written materials in the study—dusty volumes he'd spent the morning reviewing with his new crew. He frowned and turned back to her. "I haven't yet examined the extent of Dr. Bridgewood's library, but it's filled with encyclopedias, industry periodicals, medical journals and the like. Nothing a young woman like your sister would find of interest, I'm afraid—"

"Actually, it isn't for Isabella," she said, and ducked her head. "While most of my gender enjoys the romantic and literary works, I'm afraid I'm a rather odd duck. I much prefer educational material. I'd be thrilled with a medical journal—of any kind—that you'd be willing to share, my lord." She laughed self-deprecatingly.

"Indeed?"

She blushed. Was she embarrassed to admit her interest in higher learning? If so, had his response distressed her? He inwardly kicked himself. She fairly burst with intellect. It was one of her most attractive traits.

"My father always said I'd have made a fine barrister had I been born a male," she went on. "I love research."

"A woman after my own heart."

Rebecca smiled and his heart skipped a beat. Awareness like a fire-y spike of adrenalin ran up his spine. "One of my goals in coming here was to unearth the late doctor's research and study it," he told her, ignoring it. "As I said, I haven't had time to peruse the entire library yet, but if you'll give me a little while, I shall attempt to find something that would please you. But I'm afraid the room has yet to be cleaned. I wouldn't dare subject you to such a mess."

"Oh, no. I didn't wish to make work for you or take you from your endeavors." She glanced into the study once again. "Please don't trouble yourself on my behalf. It was just an odd thought." She put a hand on his arm.

The touch was so unexpected, Alistair flinched.

"Oh, heavens! I'm terribly sorry! I completely forgot about your injury. Let me see—"

"No!"

Rebecca gasped.

Alistair realized his error. "I-I mean, it's fine. No need."

She tsked. "I know you're a physician, my lord, but surely it must be difficult treating the wound yourself. I feel terrible about making you care for us when you sustained such an injury. It won't take but a minute—"

He stiffened.

"Honestly, I've seen a man's bare arms before. I assure you," she said, swiftly undoing the top buttons and pushing down the corner of his shirt. "I won't faint at the sight—oh, my!"

Alistair froze. He knew what she saw—a wound almost completely healed.

Just then, Charlie burst through the door. At the sight of the two of them, he came to a sudden halt, mouth open.

Alistair quickly brushed her hand away—he hoped with not too great a force—and shrugged back into the shirt.

"Well, blimey," was all Charlie had to say.

* * *

"_Everything _is gone?" Rebecca paced before the men in an agitated state.

"'Fraid so. Not a single pers'nal effect to be found," Charlie repeated. "They even emptied the contents of the boot box, the rascals."

Alistair swore. "I should have gone back for them immediately or remained with the coach until help arrived."

"Oh, no, my lord. I begged you not to return, remember?" Rebecca said. "In truth, there is nothing of high value in any of the trunks. We packed for a short visit. It's just . . . my journal . . ."

"Journal?" His eyebrows lifted.

She shook her head. "I just—it's nothing, really. A private diary of sorts."

"Thievin' scallywags wouldn't have use for it then—cain't read," Charlie said matter-of-factly. "Prob'ly tossed it to the side of the road a'tween here and wherever they went. I'll return to the scene and look for it."

Rebecca shook her head and let out a breath. "No. It's fine, truly. Please don't trouble yourself. I'll just start a new one. And the clothing can be replaced. My sister would like nothing better than to have an excuse to shop for new things, I assure you."

Alistair looked at Charlie, who read his unspoken command and quickly left.

"I'm so sorry."

Rebecca looked up at him, then at his shoulder.

"I'll check on your sister, then see about that book," he said, and quit the room just as swiftly.

* * *

From the choices Alistair brought her, Rebecca selected a dusty diatribe on homeopathic medicine, a second short paper on 'Physical Deformities and Their Effect on the Human Spirit,' and a small volume of works by Alfred, Lord Tennyson, the British poet, which she was surprised he'd found tucked in amongst the medical tomes.

Seeing that Isabella had fallen asleep again after her meal, she took the opportunity to curl up in an airy alcove and read. Charlie passed by numerous times, followed by one or both of the Millhouses as they worked about the house, and each time he paused to give her a cheery greeting or bring her a treat—once in the form of a bright yellow sprig of flowers, another time with a juicy golden apple, and finally with an ornately carved key he said he discovered in one of the dusty old fireplaces.

When the wind picked up in the late afternoon, she heard what sounded like tiny bells in the distance and went to investigate. Exiting the rear of the house, she found Alistair sitting atop the stone retaining wall, one leg flung over the far side, the other knee bent. For a moment, she felt a spike of fear, knowing the property fell off at quite a steep slope there. But he looked relaxed, contemplative. Then she realized he, too, was listening to the chimes.

Before it was possible for him to hear her, he turned. She wasn't sure if the look he gave her was exactly welcoming, but she plodded forth anyway.

"I hear them, but I can't see them," she said, coming to stand before the thick ancient wall. "I thought they were coming from somewhere near the house, but they're in the woods."

"There are dozens of them, hung all through the trees," he said, indicating the tree line in the distance, just beyond the ravine.

"How lovely! Did you do it?"

He shook his head. "They were already here. The first night we came, the sound spooked Charlie so bad he refused to sleep in the house." He turned to her. "I should have thought to tell you about them last night." Realizing the subject he brought up, he coughed.

Rebecca pretended not to notice. "I never heard them."

"Charlie is still uneasy with them, but I can't bring myself to take them down. I find the sound immensely soothing."

Rebecca nodded in agreement, then realized what he didn't say: they were intruding on his privacy and peace and quiet. She looked up with a serious face. "You have much to do here and we've only added to your burden. I apolo—"

"Your presence . . . it's like the bells to me," he murmured, and the sound of his voice resonated deep within her. "Tantalizing, yet calming, even as the wind blows."

Rebecca swallowed. Alistair MacGregor peered at her through heavy lids, no doubt to judge her reaction to such a provocative statement. She refused to play along, but hopefully, the dying rays of sun would hide the heat that statement brought to her face.

When she remained silent some minutes later, he sat up straight. "So, have you learned everything there is to know about homeopathic medicine now?"

"But of course!" she said. "The horrors of it, that is, according to the author. Actually, I'm afraid I spent most of the time indulging my softer self and read the poetry first. Then I think I snoozed a little." She smiled and put a foot on a lower stone. "May I?"

He shrugged and turned back to the woods. She looked down over the edge. _It was only dangerous if you thought about it. _Carefully twisting around, she swung her ankles over the wide ledge.

He spoke without looking at her. "You've both been through a terrible ordeal. I'm happy you have found a moment's respite."

"Indeed. An entire day spent reading and relaxing." She sighed with feeling. "I've never been so grateful for a head knocking in my life."

That got his attention. She explained. "While I love my aunt dearly, her house is anything but peaceful. Isabella thrives on it; I do not. I wasn't exactly looking forward to the visit, but my father insisted, as he was going out of town." She grinned and looked toward the woods as the light began to fade. "Thank you for this."

Alistair shrugged uncomfortably. After what occurred on the road, she was extremely calm. That she found his home a refuge shocked and amazed him. Even more so, that his presence and actions toward her didn't horrify her was truly remarkable. He fished around for an appropriate response but found none. He'd had so few conversations with women of quality over the last several years, he was completely rusty at small talk—not that those were the kind of exchanges he would prefer to have with this delicate beauty. Finally, he settled on a safe subject. "Your sister seems like a sweet girl."

She surprised him by laughing out loud. The chimes seemed to laugh with her.

"She is," she said. Again, that beatific smile, this time with a sly grin. "Although at times you would hardly know it. You are far too generous, my lord. Isabella is actually quite a darling when you get to know her, but she's not a good patient at all, I'm afraid. I hope she hasn't been too difficult."

"Not at all."

"Izzy's a might high strung, but . . . I suppose it's all my fault."

He lifted his eyebrow in question.

"My father and I indulge her terribly."

Alistair picked up on the important part of that. "How long ago did you lose your mother?" he asked, and immediately heard the rhythm of her heartbeat change.

She looked down and kicked at the wall with the heels of her soft leather slippers. "We were young—Isabella barely remembers her."

"So you were left to be both sister and mother."

She nodded. "My Aunt Helen helped a lot, at first."

"But she's some hours away. That couldn't have been easy."

"It wasn't. She was a young mother herself at the time and grieving the loss of her only sister. We moved closer for a time—to the city—but my father felt the country air was healthier, so we returned a few years ago. Now I can't imagine living anywhere else. I much prefer it here. If only it had remained so idyllic. Now, with the danger . . ."

Alistair felt the change come over her as a cloak. Her fear was like a punch to the gut. If she only knew how close the _real _danger was . . . . He sighed. All the worse for his actions in the night. Time to pay the piper. He cleared his throat. "I . . . behaved inappropriately toward you last evening, Miss Reynolds. It was unforgivable and I have no excuse. I hate to wonder what you must think—"

"It's Rebecca, remember? And you refer to my unfortunate excursion in the night. Please don't think anything of it, my lord. You were not yourself, and I surprised you."

He stared at her. "_Unfortunate excursion?_"

"Certainly! While I-I may not have personal experience with the effects of strong drink, I've known many a man who has, and—"

"Who? Your father?"

"Heavens, no. He does not imbibe. But he has friends who do, and sons of friends—"

He looked up sharply at the bitterness in her tone. There was something . . .

"Suffice it to say," she went on, "that wasn't my first kiss, or such experience, nor will it probably be my last. So you can stop berating yourself for seducing a virgin. I'm hardly that."

Alistair was stunned. Not only that she spoke so blithely of her experiences—and he sensed they weren't all good—but that she thought so little of herself. She may not be recently out of the school room, but she radiated the innocence of a well-bred young woman of quality. That someone had taken advantage of her—himself included—enraged him. "_Who?_" he demanded without thinking, and couldn't stop the tiny growl that accompanied the question. Who had hurt her?

He watched her face color for a second time and kicked himself again. He had no right to know or demand anything from her. Nor would he ever. Studying the lovely woman beside him, the thought brought an overwhelming wave of regret.

Beautiful Rebecca gave no answer, nor did he expect one. She merely met his gaze with a bold one of her own, daring him to condemn her. He wouldn't. It was an unfortunate truth that many men used strength against a woman, and he abhorred it. That he was capable of doing the same, and with so little effort, made him shudder to think what he could become. _Like Adam_. And look where that had led.

Her brave admission humbled him. She was so proud and vulnerable. And in more danger than ever. The instinct to protect rose up inside him in a powerful rush. That she needed protection against him hurt his heart, but he would bear it. The thought of doing any less was agonizing. He ground his teeth and set his resolve. Time to stop this before it began. Best to hurt her now with words than risk her getting involved with the likes of him.

He swung his leg back over and jumped to the ground. "Although I'm concerned that your sister is still quite weak, I do believe she is fit to travel. Frankly, Bridgewood is no place for you, _Miss Reynolds_. Either of you. It would be best if you took your leave as soon as possible. And never return. In the morning I shall make arrangements for another coach."

With that, he turned and walked determinedly to the house.

* * *

Rebecca stared after him. Dratted man! Whatever happened to this being a place of respite? He hadn't even offered her a hand down. Had she been too rash? She assumed, by admitting her short-comings, he'd get the hint that she was interested. Lud, she was practically throwing herself at him! And he wanted to send her away? _Never _to return? That seemed a bit harsh, and she didn't believe for a moment those were his true feelings. Not after last night. Thinking of that, what had he murmured when he thought she was the mysterious Georgie? 'I can't give you what you need.'

Oh dear, intriguing, Mr. MacGregor. If only he knew what she really needed—and wanted. _Him_.

She hopped down to the grass and brushed at her skirt. Fine. She'd take whatever she could get. But she wouldn't stay away. He'd have to deal with that.

Her mind made up, Rebecca picked up her skirts followed him back to the house.


	7. Chapter 7

**Chapter 7**

Hands on hips, Rebecca watched Alistair's retreating back in silence. Then she followed him to the house. By the time she entered, only a few lamps were lit. The door to the study was open but it was dark inside. Somewhere in the distance she heard a door slam. She hadn't thought the other wing of the house was used, but obviously she was wrong. She stood at the bottom of the staircase wondering if she dared . . . .

Mrs. Millhouse crossed the foyer on the way to the kitchen. Seeing the direction of her gaze, she stopped. "That wing's off limits, Miss," she stated.

"Why? What's up there?"

The housekeeper crossed her arms. "Not my business. Nor yorn. The master said to stay out; that's all I know."

Rebecca studied the upper level once more. No light shown from the floor above, but she was certain he'd gone in that direction. Just to spite her. The coward.

She shrugged. If he thought avoiding her would solve everything, he had another think coming. Pretending to saunter slowly in the direction of her and Izzy's room, she waited until the housekeeper was long gone before quietly returning to the landing. Then she began to climb the stairs.

* * *

Alistair watched her from an alcove above and to the right of the foyer. Brazen woman! Had he not made himself perfectly clear? He may not have spent much time in the company of females in the last few years, but from what he remembered, none were like Rebecca. Oh, some knew how to use their womanly wiles to charm a man into getting their way, but she simply _demanded _it. She spurned tradition, flaunted her short-comings, and disregarded his wishes!

A stair creaked beneath her feet and she froze. He picked up the rise in her heart rate. _Yes, be afraid, little dove. Be very afraid._ By the time she reached the second story, darkness enveloped her. If only she knew he could see in the dark. He hid a smile. What would Miss Brazen Beauty do with _that _knowledge, huh?

As amusing as it was to watch and wonder, there were restrictions for a reason. The upstairs laboratory was littered with bones and other skeletal remains, the likes of which he hadn't yet had time to examine and didn't want discovered, except by him. It would cause too many questions—questions he had no answer for, nor perhaps would he ever. As soon as she started to enter the first room—a long, empty chamber—he moved in.

"What is it about 'off limits' do you not understand?"

He clamped a hand over her mouth before she could scream. Not that she tried. He might have succeeded in startling her, but she quickly recovered. And stomped on his boot.

"Ow!"

The entire scene was much too reminiscent of their first meeting on the beach and he immediately released her.

"At least you didn't throw me to the ground this time," she said. "I suppose that's progress."

Why on earth had he thought she would scream? Little spitfire! "You should be thankful I don't throw you out of the house! Do you have no respect for the wishes of others?"

"Of course I do! Except when they're trying to avoid me."

"Rules are made for a reason, madam. It's dangerous up here."

"And yet here _you _are." Angry, she spun around, facing the room, and peered inside. The last rays of daylight filtered through the windows lining the back walls and turned the covered furniture—what there was of it—into ghostly apparitions. "Is this a ballroom?"

"What does it matter?" he groused.

She turned and looked up at him. Then grabbed him by the hand and literally pulled him inside. "I never got that dance."

Alistair froze, jerking her to a halt. "_Dance?_"

"That's right." She drew him further into the center. "Any gentleman of quality knows he has an obligation to dance with all the single ladies at least once. But you disappeared before doing so."

_There may not have been music, sweetheart, but we danced_ . . . "An oversight, to be sure. Or perhaps I'm not the 'gentleman of quality' you think I am. Besides, I—"

"—needed air. Yes, I know. Most people wait at least an hour before attempting to escape. It's only proper."

But he wasn't proper, and he wasn't 'most' people. "I'm . . . claustrophobic." That sounded plausible, didn't it? But why he should have to explain, he didn't know!

"Oh?"

Her look of surprise seemed genuine and made him feel guilty for the lie. Just a teense. Then she stepped into his arms and he forgot why he was angry.

"And what else are you afraid of? The dark?"

_Oh, he was afraid, all right_. But not of the dark. Her eyes sparkled in the twilight. Was she _laughing _at him? Two could play that dangerous game. Alistair slid an arm around her back, pulling her in tight, and murmured, "I _prefer _the dark."

He waited a moment, judging the effect of that statement. She just stared right back. "You really want to do this?" he asked. "Because you should be careful what you wish for. You're in _my _territory now."

"I'm not afraid of you. And . . . I just want to talk."

Alistair breathed in her scent. It brought their bodies even closer. Not that there was much room to fill. "Oh, honey. I think the time for talking is long past."

He felt her pulse spike and his did the same. Alistair pushed her hair back and began with her neck, just as he had that first night. Surprise had caught her off guard then. This time, there was no fear, only a dramatic shiver followed by the tiniest moan. The sound made his own body sing.

His mouth found hers, his tongue delving deep inside. _Yes_. He would learn every part. She responded hesitantly at first, but she learned fast. It didn't take long before she was engaging his in the same manner. And she didn't push him away. That emboldened him. He reached down and lifted her closer. She gasped, then returned to his mouth. _Oh, sweet heaven_. Literally.

He slowly moved them through the room until her back was against the window pane. By then his hands were roaming freely and he knew things needed to stop before he shocked her entirely. Setting her upon the deep window ledge, he leaned away. Just slightly. And tried to breathe. Then he risked a look into her eyes. They were wide upon his.

"What? Not the kind of dance you expected? Oh, you meant with _music_."

Rebecca pushed him away, unimpressed. "If you're trying to scare me off, it won't work."

Not what he was expecting to hear. "Oh, that's right. You've had _many _such experiences."

He heard a tiny gasp at her words used against her and felt a small measure of regret. But, blast, he was running out of options!

Resilient Rebecca merely slid her feet to the floor and stood-all five foot three of her. "I'll respect your wishes," she said, looking up into his face, "and we'll leave on the morrow. But I'm not staying away. So don't count on it."

With that, she pushed past him and strode out the door.

* * *

Rebecca crawled in beside Izzy that night and gave herself over to dreams filled with the sounds of tinkling fairies; the smell of sweet, summer blooms; and the feel of dark, luscious kisses. When she awakened the next morning, it was to find Isabella not only up, but rummaging around the room.

"Isabella! What are you doing?"

"Finally! It was as if you were sleeping the sleep of the dead. I can't find anything to wear! I was afraid to venture out on my own, but seeing as I have no idea where we are . . . I heard a disturbance outside and went to the window. Some horrible man actually looked up at me and waved!" Arms akimbo, she punctuated that statement with a decidedly un-ladylike sneeze.

Rebecca smiled to herself. The 'horrible man' must have been Charlie. Her gentle sister was not a snob in the least, but she'd had so little experience with men other than her father and the servants, she wouldn't know what to make of a poor but friendly male trying to charm her in the only way he knew how.

"Goodness! Look at you. Your head must still hurt from the way you're frowning, and now you've caught a cold. Get back into bed at once!"

Rebecca swung her legs out of the bed and started putting on her blue dress.

"Are you wearing that again?"

"I haven't a choice, remember? Do you recall nothing of the other night?"

Isabella sagged back down onto the bed. "We were traveling to Aunt Helen's . . ." she said with a frown.

Rebecca tucked her sister's feet into the coverlet and listened to Izzy puzzle it out amidst more snuffles and sneezes. No doubt it was the dust mites in the room that were irritating her lungs, a frequent ailment. She smiled. Her sister was obviously hale and recovered from her head injury, but Rebecca wasn't ready to leave—not just yet. It would be a shame to depart so soon when she was just getting to know the man she found infinitely fascinating. She didn't intend to leave until he forced them out.

She walked over to the curtains and pulled them closed with more enthusiasm than was called for—all in the hopes of rustling up a few more mites. Her sister would get over it quickly enough . . .

She had just started trying to work her hair into some semblance of order when there was a loud racket at the front of the house. And Alistair's deep, resonating voice.

* * *

"Charles?"

On the front door landing, Charlie turned, disgusted. "These 'genl'men come a'ridin' in here like marauding bandits demanding we turn over our _pris'ners_ to 'em—" He spat on the ground.

The lead rider jumped off his horse and strode forward, a gun trained on them. "Caleb Darrington. Bring the women out at once or you won't like what will happen."

Charlie sent a sharp look at Alistair and immediately stepped in between the men to diffuse the situation. "I think he be meanin' the young ladies, milord. Now, now, gents, come on," he said to the troupe of riders. "We're no' holdin' any prisoners! Lawd sakes. The Missus Reynolds just be recoverin' after them thievin'—"

"Who are you?" Alistair demanded, addressing the more important question as to what gave this man authority to demand _anything_, much less the women turned over to him.

It was a woman in back who came forward to answer his question. "My lord, we're friends of the Reynoldses. I'm Jessica Breckenridge. We learned from their aunt of a terrible accident on the road, and that they'd been taken here."

"It twarnt no axeedent," Alistair heard Charlie mutter under his breath, too low for the woman to hear, thankfully, as she was obviously another young lady of good breeding.

"Jess!" Rebecca called from behind him.

"Oh, thank God, Rebecca! You're well! How fares Isabella?"

"She's fine, just fine." Rebecca embraced the young woman who climbed off her horse to greet her. "She just needed rest after hitting her head when the coach overturned."

"I was so worried!"

"But how did you know?"

"I was traveling back from my cousin's when we passed the overturned coach on the road. I recognized it immediately and started for your aunt's house. Caleb met us there and told us the story. I had to see that you were well."

"We're fine. Better than fine, actually. Mr. MacGregor is a doctor, of all things," she said, smiling up at him. "We've been in the best of hands."

Caleb Darrington swung his eyes toward Alistair. "I'll be taking the ladies off your _hands _now, sir. Immediately." He turned to Rebecca and ordered, "Bring Isabella out. Now!"

Rebecca frowned and Alistair caught the look. She didn't like the man, of that he was certain. "Who is this man to you?" he asked her.

"No one, my lord." She looked up at Darrington, challenging him to argue. "Merely the son of my father's acquaintance. But Jessica is a dear friend."

"As your father's not returned yet, I'll escort you back to your aunt's, Rebecca."

_Rebecca?_ Alistair fumed. While he himself had pleaded with her to use his given name, to do so publicly would be extremely inappropriate, something he was sure this man understood and did on purpose to claim his place and rile him. It worked.

Once again, Charlie stepped in. "Ah, now ain't that great? I see Mr. Darrington, here, done found all the missin' luggage, too," he said, nodding toward the rider-less horse weighed down with bags on either side. "I'll just help with the rearrangin' if you want to assist the gen'l ladies out."

Meaning, leave the scene, peacefully, you oaf, before you cause big trouble. Alistair did as he was told and marched straight back into the house. Rebecca followed close on his heels.

* * *

"My lord! My lord, wait!"

At the bottom of the stairs, she caught up with him. Alistair swung around.

"Please forgive them. I'm sure they don't mean to accuse you of anything. Their concern comes out of worry for our well-being."

He wasn't so sure about that, but rather than continue to frown, he shrugged. "All the better for me. I'll be relieved of your . . . burden, and you can be on your way, safe and sound."

"_Burden?_"

He ignored her. "Mrs. Millhouse!" he shouted. The housekeeper ran forward. "Prepare Miss Reynolds for travel and gather extra blankets. The day is not terribly warm and Isabella has developed a cough."

When he sensed Rebecca following him back out of the rear of the house, he stopped. "You needn't worry. There is no fever. My guess is the ill humors in the house are affecting her. All the more reason—"

"But—"

"Miss Reynolds, please attend your sister. This adventure is officially over."

"My lord—"

He snapped around. "No 'buts' this time. And warn your 'friend,' _Mr. Darrington_, that I don't like threats. To me or anyone I care about. He'd better watch himself."

"Fine. I don't like them, either. And he's no friend. Not—not like that."

"Good." When she continued to stand there, he met her eyes.

"Your wound—"

_Damn_. "I heal quickly."

"More like _miraculously_. Or is it by some experimental medication?"

His eyebrows rose.

"I only ask because you said you were interested in Doctor Bridgewood's research, and it would appear you have done some of your own."

"I have no magic cure, if that's what you mean."

"Then how do you explain—"

"I don't, all right? I don't! And maybe you should mind your own business."

"Fine. But . . . you and I could be friends, could we not?"

"_What?_"

"I may not know a lot about medicine—yet, but I could learn. I would _enjoy _learning, actually. You could teach me. We are much the same, I believe."

"You and I are nothing alike and we could _never _be friends."

She frowned. "Whyever not? As you must realize, I'm hardly in the spring of my youth. I'm an independent woman with an un-ladylike preference for study and adventure. I-I detest the insipid rituals of my class, and especially the men—you being the exception." She sighed. "Alistair, I have an interest! Must I say it so plainly?"

Alistair swallowed, hard. Just to hear his name on her lips was sweet as honey, but stung like the venom of a wasp. "Is that why you let me kiss you the way I did? Because you were _interested?_"

She refused to be cowed by his ominous tone. "You act like a bully to push me away, but I know better. You're a good man trying to do the right thing. And I—"

"Madam, you hardly know me."

"But I can see who you are! You're the first man to come along who's made me feel _anything_, and I won't easily give that up."

_She could see who he was?_

"Believe me, I can be just as stubborn as any man."

Alistair stared. _Oh, he believed that_. And she was _magnificent_.

"I just need . . . employment."

"_Employment?_ You're in need of money?"

She rung her hands. "No. A task. Give me occupation, utilize my skills. Let me help you with your research. I could clean, organize. Oh, and I'm very thrifty. Once my father returns home, I'll talk with him. I'm sure he won't mind. He's as anxious to be rid of me as—"

"Didn't you hear me? _No_. It's too dangerous."

"Dangerous, how? My sister and I—and Jason as well—could have _died _had you not come along when you did. We owe you our lives." Emboldened by his disbelieving gaze, she stepped closer and laid a hand upon his cheek. "I don't care what those men out there say or think. You are the _hero _of this story, my lord, not the villain."

He laughed bitterly and pushed her hand away. Hero? He thought not. "You were in grave danger last night; you're just too innocent to know it."

Instead of being intimidated, she looked up at him with her heart in her eyes. "Just think about it. Please. Until then, I'll return to my aunt's, forever grateful for your help." Before he knew what she was about, she pushed to her tip-toes and pressed a kiss to his cheek.

"Rebecca . . ."

She was already gone.

* * *

Alistair watched the group depart from the second story window, Charlie at his side. Before the group set off, there was some arguing going on. Rebecca appeared to rebuff Caleb Darrington's order for her to ride with him. Alistair smiled in satisfaction. "She doesn't like him."

"Aye. He don't seem like the friendliest sort. Will they be all right?"

Meaning, the girls. Alistair saw Rebecca look back at the house one last time. "Probably," he said. He grabbed his jacket off the bed and headed for the door. "But I'm sure as hell going to make certain of it."


	8. Chapter 8

_A/N - Thanks so much for hanging in there with me! I think there might be a reveal coming... xx_

**Chapter 8**

"You're going to _work _for him?"

Jessica pitched her voice low so as not to be overheard by the other riders, but it didn't disguise her surprise.

"Why not? He needs the help, and I have the time. Besides," Rebecca spoke even softer. "He had a close encounter on the beach with the . . . creature." At least one, maybe more. "Now that I've had an up-close and personal experience myself, I simply must know more."

"The _animal_? The one you believe is responsible for the maulings?" Jess visibly shivered. "Caleb told me your manservant said the thieves who stopped your coach were killed. But I assumed Jason had done it. Was that not the case?"

"No. Jason was already down when they were killed."

"My heavens. Did you see it?"

"Isabella and I were still in the overturned coach. It was all over so quickly. But I heard their screams."

Jessica covered her mouth with a shaking hand. "You must have been terrified."

"I was. I shan't lie. Had Mr. MacGregor not come by just then—" She took a deep breath. "He must have frightened it away."

"Becca, don't tell your aunt that part. She's no doubt been in a tizzy worrying over you. I'm just thankful Caleb came along when he did."

Rebecca frowned at the back of the lead rider's head. "What was Caleb doing at Aunt Helen's, by the way? Did he say?"

"I'm not sure. We haven't had time for conversation. He must have heard your father was not at home and assumed you'd be there." She looked over at Rebecca. "Maybe he wanted to apologize for his behavior the other night?"

Rebecca pressed her lips together. He had a lot more to apologize for than that. "If he thinks barging into Bridgewood and demanding I leave at once with him is his idea of an apology, he's dead wrong. That kind of autocratic behavior is exactly what I don't like about him."

"Rebecca Reynolds, you're twenty-six. You could do worse, you know. Unless you think Mr. MacGregor is an option?" She looked over at her friend. "You do! Oh, my lord! I didn't realize. _That's_ why you want to work for him!"

"Shhh!" Rebecca glanced toward the front, but Caleb was laughing with one of her aunt's men and ignoring them completely. Out of the corner of her eye she spotted a movement in the woods beyond the road. Was someone there? Surely not, for a person on foot could not follow such a group on horseback. Could they? She shook herself and looked back at Jessica. It was broad daylight and not the time or place for calamity. "I just want to get to know him, that's all. I certainly prefer his temperament to that of Mr. High and Mighty here. Speaking of whom . . . I think I need to have a talk with his Royal Lowness." She kneed her horse and trotted up alongside Caleb.

Jessica fell back to chat with a frazzled looking Isabella.

* * *

"My aunt's house is a little out of the way for you, isn't it? Why were you there?"

Caleb looked over at her. "Direct, as always. Why are you so surprised? I heard your father was out of town. Should a man not visit his fiancée to check on her well being?"

"I'm no longer your fiancée, remember?"

Caleb reached down and rubbed a spot on his shin. "Ah, that. Did you assume your little fit of temper at the dance the other night spelled the end of us? I guess I never told you—I love a woman with spirit." He smiled, but it didn't quite reach his eyes.

Rebecca frowned. There was a time when she'd thought him handsome and that cocky grin attractive. No more.

"Lucky for you I came along when I did."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"You're serious? You and your sister were obviously wallowing in that dirty old mansion with God knows what kind of host. You'd have been better off waiting in the coach by the side of the road."

"That 'dirty old mansion,' as you put it, is a lovely old home just in need of some care. And Mr. MacGregor had just moved in. He'd hardly had a chance to begin repairs when he kindly opened it to strangers!"

He laughed. "Yes, poor, dear Mr. MacGregor. You certainly made fast friends."

She didn't like the insinuation in his voice. Rebecca squared her shoulders. "He was the epitome of graciousness and did us a great service. Why, had he not come along when he did, Jason could have died." Once again he made her feel small. She didn't like having to defend herself, and had no intention of discussing Alistair with him. She moved the conversation back to safer ground. "And it was certainly less dangerous than the side of the road!" She looked away to the lush green of the woods. In sunlight, it was beautiful.

"Yes. Jason told me about the thieves."

She turned. "He did?"

"You saw nothing?"

She shook her head. "It was dark and we were in the overturned coach."

* * *

An hour later, Aunt Helen, five-foot two and a bundle of skirts and flounces, literally ran down the drive to greet them.

"Oh, my darlings! Are you well? Oh, dear Isabella, you look absolutely peeked!"

Rebecca heard Izzy gasp behind her. Even though the men with them, with the exception of Caleb, were not of their station, she knew her sister was dying inside. She'd done her best with her hair, but the way Caleb had rushed them out of Bridgewood, there'd been no time.

"Dear Auntie, we're fine, truly. But Isabella would no doubt kiss the ground you walk on if you would lead her to a long, hot bath."

"Rebecca Anne, you no doubt could use the same. I'll have _two _baths drawn up right away. Oh, sweet heaven! I was so worried when you didn't arrive."

"I'm sorry to have worried you so." She let a groom help her down before Caleb thought to.

"Nonsense. What could you have done? To think such people still stalk the roads in these parts, preying on young women and weary travelers. It's horrifying! Your uncle would roll over in his grave! I sent word to your father, by the way. I'm sure he'll cut short whatever nonsensical business he has at court and hurry right back."

What Helen considered nonsensical her father lived for. And dropping everything would not bode well for their poor neighbor, Mr. Finnegan, whom he'd gone to help. "Oh, Aunt, you shouldn't have worried him. Other than Jason, we weren't harmed, and had a nice time visiting with our newest neighbor."

"Goodness! Bridgewood, of all places! It's thankful, I am, that young Mr. Darrington was here to rescue you girls or I don't know what we would have done."

Rebecca saw Caleb's wizened grin out of the corner of her eye and wanted to puke. "Aunt, we hardly needed rescuing. It was Mr. MacGregor who'd already done that."

"Well." Helen fanned herself. "I don't know what to think! I'm just so happy you're here safe and sound. Quickly! Come inside, all of you. Why, we must start planning right away. A party, I think, is just what we need to calm ourselves and wipe the troubles from our minds . . . ."

As she rattled on, Rebecca grimaced and turned to gaze longingly back down the road from which they'd come. A party was the _last _thing she wanted. Now, another dance with a tall, dark-haired, dark-eyed doctor—_that _would certainly take one's mind off one's troubles . . . .

* * *

As usual, the music was too loud for good conversation, not that Rebecca was feeling in a particularly chatty mood. Once again, her aunt had amazed her with the speed at which she put together a gathering. Her staff seemed ready at a moment's notice to put on a gala occasion. If only she were in the mood.

At least Jonathan Marley had shown up, at long last. That lifted Isabella's spirits entirely. He'd already spun her around the dance floor several times more than was proper, but no one was taking notice. At least he was a pleasant fellow. The shy, mamma's boy was of a temperament similar to Izzy's and not one to take advantage. With her blonde hair and porcelain complexion, her sister could probably do better, but Jonathan made her happy, and that's all that really mattered.

"Who's that?"

Jessica Breckenridge came alongside her with cups of iced lemon tea for them both.

"Where?"

"In the overcoat at the door. He's talking to your aunt right now."

Rebecca turned and frowned. "I can't say I've ever seen him before."

"Not exactly dressed for a party."

She studied the man. Not in formal clothes, but neat and tidy. Perhaps a poor relation? "One of my uncle's former business partners, perhaps? I think I'll go find out." She crossed the room to where her aunt had stationed herself in order to greet all the guests as they arrived.

"Oh, Rebecca, dear. Just the person we wanted to see."

"What is it, Aunt Helen?"

"This is Detective Billings."

The man in the overcoat gave her a perfunctory bow and handed her a card.

"Jack Billings, of the London Magistrate's Office?" she read. "You're rather far from the city, are you not, sir? What on earth brings you to our fair neck of the woods? Or have you business with Mr. Darrington?"

"Entirely different division, ma'am."

"Bow Street runner. He's investigating the murders," her aunt said, sotto voice, and fanned herself. "Mr. Billings seems to think they may be tied to incidents in the city some time ago."

"Indeed?"

"Yes, ma'am. They have a similar M.O. That stands for—"

"_Modus operandi_. Yes, I'm familiar with the term. But what do you suspect would bring a killer here?"

"Rebecca! Perhaps you could offer Mr. Billings some tea. In the _study_. I'm sure he's weary from his travels."

Meaning, out of earshot of her other guests. Of course.

"I apologize for arriving on such a night, madam."

"Oh, not a'tall, sir."

"This way, please, Mr. Billings."

Safely stowed in the study, Rebecca rounded on the detective. "I'm afraid my aunt knows little of these things, sir. Since my uncle died, the only portion of the paper she reads is the society section."

"I hope I didn't discomfort her, then. I'm actually here to visit you, Miss Reynolds. And your sister and groom. I had just arrived in the area when I heard you may have had a run-in with the beast, yourself."

_Word travels fast_. "B-beast? Is that what you think it is?"

"No ma'am. I'm of the mind it's a man, but the moniker seems fittin'."

Meaning, he'd examined the bodies and they were as gruesome as she imagined. "I see." She glanced at him through lowered lashes. He reminded her of Charlie when he spoke. "I'm not sure I can be of much help."

"Other than you, your sister and your driver, were there any other witnesses to the killing on the road that night?"

"Witnesses? I'd hardly call us that, sir. My sister, Isabella, received a knock on the head when the coach overturned and was out cold. I was trapped inside, as well, unable to see what was happening." A small, white lie, perhaps, but mostly true. "And our driver had been wounded by gunfire. I'd hardly call us witnesses."

"You didn't see anything? Did you hear . . ?"

"Well, goodness me, there was a terrible racket, gun fire, and then . . . and then . . ."

"Yes?"

She looked up. "And then Mr. MacGregor came riding up the road. He rescued us all!"

"Mr. MacGregor. Would that be Alistair MacGregor?"

She watched as he wrote the name down in his little notebook. "You know him?"

"No ma'am. It's just my duty to learn who's come and gone in recent weeks. I've been on the trial of this killer for some time."

"And you believe he is the same one from London?"

"It's looking more and more likely."

"Goodness. Mr. MacGregor is a doctor, and the new owner of Bridgewood manor," she felt obliged to add.

Mr. Billings seemed less than impressed.

"It's some hours ride from here, back near my home. We're just staying with my aunt temporarily."

"I see. I guess I'll have to have a talk with this Mr. MacGregor. And you say he just showed up that night? Out of nowhere?"

"What do you imply, sir?"

"I'm not implying anythin', ma'am. Just trying to get the facts."

"Well, the fact is, had Mr. MacGregor not arrived on the scene so fortuitously, my driver would no doubt have bled to death on the road, and my sister would not have been so gently cared for!"

"Do you happen to know from where Mr. MacGregor hailed before coming to Hillshire?"

"I don't presume to know, but I doubt anywhere near London."

"Why's that?"

Rebecca blinked. "Actually, I don't know. It's just a guess."

Billings wrote again in his little book. "I'll be validatin' that."

She put her hands on her hips. "You go right on _validatin_', then, sir. I'm sure you'll find your man—and it certainly won't be Mr. MacGregor. If you don't mind, I have a party to attend."

"I understand. Appreciate your time, ma'am."

"If that's all then, I'll say good-night."

"That's all for now, Miss. Thank you. I'll be in the area another day or two, then I'll head toward the coast. If you think of anything, do let me know."

"Indeed I will, sir."

He tipped his hat to her. "Perhaps we'll meet again."

* * *

"Oh, the nerve!"

"What is it?"

Rebecca rejoined Jessica near the punch bowl. "That awful Detective Billings. He talks of Mr. MacGregor as if he were a suspect in the murders! Just because a man is new to the area, he shouldn't be treated like a criminal."

"I'm sure Mr. Billings is just doing his due diligence. I think he's quite handsome, don't you?"

"Why Jessica Mary Breckenridge, I can't believe you just said that."

"Said what? It's the truth." She giggled.

Rebecca grinned, despite herself. Yes, Detective Billings was quite well put together for a working man, but awfully serious. She couldn't see past his suspicious mind. She looked across the room and another set of eyes caught hers.

She frowned. "When did Caleb's father arrive? It's as if all of Hillshire has descended on the party." All but one notable exception. She sighed.

"Perhaps he came with Mr. Billings?" She shrugged. "I heard there was a hunt nearby. Caleb mentioned something of the sort."

Rebecca smoothed a curl back in place and sniffed. The son was bad enough. Father and son together were intolerable. She looked away and thought of Alistair again. How she wished he was there instead. Just the thought of Mr. Billings showing up on his doorstep with questions—. She sucked in a breath. She should warn him! It was half a day's ride by coach, but on horseback one could travel much faster . . . .

Before she could put voice to her idea, someone nudged her from behind. She spun around. Caleb Darrington held out a glass only to realize she already had one. He grimaced and put it down on the side table. "I hear a waltz is coming up in the next set. Shall we?"

"My aunt would have a fit of the vapors."

"Your aunt is smarter than that. And she knows our situation. I'm sure she'd look the other way."

"Just what 'situation' would that be? And you don't know her as you think you do."

His smile died. "Very well, how about a walk on the terrace? I hear there's a full moon out and the lightest of breezes."

But no wind chimes. Rebecca sighed.

Jessica elbowed her. "Go on, you two. I'll cover for you with your aunt."

Rebecca shook her head but Caleb grabbed her by the elbow and walked her straight to the side door. As soon as they were out of sight of the other guests, she shook him off. He laughed and leaned back against the porch railing.

"Much better, don't you think? All the unwashed masses fighting for a place in the pecking order. It's kind of disgusting."

She stepped farther away from him and peered out onto the darkened grounds. It did feel better to be outside, present company excepted. "Those are my friends and family, thank you very much."

"Ooh. I didn't mean to offend."

"Didn't you?"

"Why would I? When they're soon to become my family, too."

She swung around. "Are you truly that obtuse, or are you playing some kind of game? You and I will _never _be family."

He pushed away from the wall and leveled a dangerous glare at her. "We'll see about that. And this is no game. You and I have circled each other for years. I've been patient long enough. Your fits of temper worked for a while, but I'm no longer amused. Let's do ourselves both a favor and give in to what we really want."

In one step he was there, a hand on her arm, tugging her into the shadows. He leaned in close. "I'd make it good for you, Becky. You know I would." His hot breath made her shiver with revulsion, but they were in too public a place to make a scene. Someone would surely hear her scream. She steeled herself for the kiss that never came. Just as he was about to press his mouth to her hair, she heard Isabella calling for her.

"My sister. I'm here! Out here!"

Caleb immediately stepped a proper distance away—at least he had that much good sense—before Izzy's head popped around the corner.

"Oh! There you are. I thought you might have gone to bed."

Thankfully Izzy couldn't see the smirk on Caleb's face from where she stood. He remained hidden in the in the shadows.

"I-I was just getting some air. But I'm better now."

"Good. Aunt Helen's calling us all to dinner. Hurry!"

"We'll be right there."

As soon as her sister turned, Rebecca started to follow, but a heavy hand on her arm stopped her. "You got your temporary reprieve, darlin', but it won't last long. My father plans to make an announcement at dinner. Be sure to put on your prettiest smile."

With that, he released her and passed through the doorway without a look back.

An _announcement_? Oh no, he wouldn't! She fought to control her breathing.

She thought of the detective and his plans to go to Bridgewood tomorrow. Someone should warn Alistair. She glanced at the clock on the mantle. Caleb wouldn't make an announcement without her, would he? He wouldn't dare. If she left now, she could be there in a few hours . . . .

Course set, she crossed the room to where Jessica still stood. "Please tell my aunt I have a headache and am going to bed. I would prefer not to be disturbed."

"Oh. But what about dinner?"

Rebecca shook her head. "I'm fine, really. I'll have the maid bring something up later."

"Okay. It's not Caleb again, is it? Did he bother you?"

'Bother' didn't begin to describe it. But Jessica wouldn't understand. "No, nothing like that. Really. I just think the events of the last few days must have caught up with me. And you know I'm not that fond of parties."

Jessica smiled sympathetically. "I know. I'll tell your aunt."

"Thank you."

Rebecca circled around the room then passed through the entryway door that led to the staircase and the upper floor bedroom she routinely used on her visits. But she bypassed the stairs and headed out the side entrance instead and ran straight for the stable. Cerus would recognize her and welcome a midnight ride . . . .

* * *

"Where is she, boy?"

Caleb glanced around the dining hall and frowned.

"She escaped you again?" His father tsked. "I told you to make your move. We must announce your engagement tonight."

"Perhaps she went to freshen up. I'm certain she'll be here."

"Miss Reynolds? I saw her headin' toward the stables some time ago, milords. She seemed in an awful hurry."

The Darringtons' similar blond heads turned as one toward the houseboy.

"Thought someone should know. It ain't safe for a lady to be ridin' this late at night unaccompanied."

The elder Darrington placed a hand on the boy's arm. "You did well, son. But for the lady's reputation, best keep that to yourself, huh? We'll see to her safety. Thank you."

"Aye, milord," the boy said, relieved, and continued into the dining hall with his tray.

"Why are you still standing here?" he said to Caleb. "Go after her!"

Caleb gritted his teeth. "Rebecca rejected me, father. What am I supposed to do?"

Royce Darrington swore under his breath. Then he moved in closer until father and son were nearly nose to nose. Caleb knew better than to flinch. "Are you so weak, you let a woman rule you by her tongue?"

"No woman rules me."

"Then prove it. Take her in hand. I want that land. I can persuade the others, but Reynolds will use the law against me. He always does. The only ace we have is his daughter."

"I want her."

The senior Darrington smiled. "Of course you do. Then take her. In fact, that might be the easiest way. Young people, these days; they're so impetuous. Put a babe in her. She'll come to heel."

Caleb Darrington looked up at his father, then toward the main entrance, and nodded. He flipped up his collar and ran for the door.

* * *

Alistair had waited in the woods just beyond the country estate for hours after the troupe had arrived. The home seemed wealthy and well-groomed, complete with a plethora of staff to greet the small band of riders. One well-dressed woman, whom he supposed was Rebecca's aunt, had even come out in person to greet them. They were safe. He needn't have worried. Nevertheless, he was reluctant to leave even though there would be no further glimpses of his lady or her sister anytime soon. They were no doubt exhausted from their travels and would spend the remainder of their visit resting and enjoying the comfort and company of family and friends.

That Caleb Darrington was among those still present irked, but they'd had an uneventful journey to the estate. He hadn't sensed any great anxiety from Rebecca along the way.

That said, there was really no purpose in him remaining nearby. He had work to do. And a killer to catch. When evening came and the music started, he knew he wasn't needed. He turned Chameleon back toward the road and nudged him home.

* * *

Caleb spotted the dappled gray in the moonlight just turning the curve ahead of him, and smiled. He knew if he pushed his mount he'd eventually catch up to her. Rebecca rode well, but she wasn't a daring horsewoman. He easily outpaced her. Nor was she aware she had a tail.

For the first hour he'd convinced himself she just needed some time alone and had taken a ride on a lark. But when she didn't turn back, he realized she had no intention of returning. He ground his teeth. Not only was it foolhardy beyond measure to cross the county on horseback after dark, he knew it was in an effort to escape him. Well, she sadly miscalculated. He kicked his steed into a faster gallop. It was long past time to pay for such foolishness.

Rebecca was so focused on the woods on either side of her, she wasn't paying attention to her mount. She knew the horse could sense her agitation, but she couldn't help it. Every curve in the road looked like the one where the thieves had accosted their coach. Why had she not thought this through? She should have at least camouflaged herself as a boy—or armed herself. As it was, the light color of her skirts shone like a beacon in the moonlight. She took a deep breath. She'd come too far to turn back now. She should be within an hour of her destination. Hopefully Alistair was at home. If not, she'd head to her father's house.

She shook off her anxiety and had just run a soothing hand down the horse's mane when she heard it—a rider approaching!

She gasped. Without looking back, she leaned low over Cerus' neck and spurred him into a gallop. A scream rose up in her throat as she heard the other horse bearing down on her. But before she could let it out, she was grabbed from behind and literally yanked from her saddle.

"Shhh!"

A gloved hand covered her mouth and strong arms held her immobile as she was hoisted in front of the rider. She started to struggle and was about to throw the fit of her life when she heard it—another rider approaching from further down around the bend. He wasn't in sight yet, but it was only a matter of time.

The man who held her made a sharp, guttural command to Cerus, and the poor animal was so spooked, he tore off down the road in a mad rush. Her captor took them quickly into the shadow of the trees. His hand still over her mouth, she couldn't warn whoever was coming, but from her vantage point she clearly saw the lone rider coming down the road: Caleb Darrington! She tried to cry out, but was nearly suffocated by the glove on her face.

Caleb rode past, intent on chasing down Cerus, unaware he no longer had a rider.

Just as well. No sense in endangering another life. She quit trying to make noise and looked down at the huge black horse in front of her, accepting her fate. It was a very _familiar _looking horse. She turned.

Angry eyes met hers—Alistair's eyes!

"Are you crazy?!" he whispered furiously. "Do you have a death wish?"

Her mouth had gone dry with fright, but she managed to find her voice. "Alistair!"

"Hush! Soon as he sees your horse is riderless, he'll be back."

"It's Caleb!"

"Yes."

She pushed away from him. "You nearly frightened me to death!"

Alistair wondered just who'd been more frightened. "What in God's name are you doing out here?"

"I could ask the same thing of you!"

He could think of a few other things he'd like to do to her for scaring him that way, but now was not the time. "I told you – I like the night. I get restless."

"Well . . . so do I!"

"Night walks on a smuggler's beach. Yes, I guess you do. But you're a long ways from there and your aunt's home. Did you learn nothing from your perilous trip in the coach?"

She had the grace to wince. "It wasn't my intention, truly. I—I just wanted to get away for a little while. Then I kept riding, and . . . I wanted to find refuge—a place of . . . peace." She shrugged.

Respite was the unspoken word he heard. It warmed his heart but made no difference. "I told you to stay away."

The look she gave him said his scolding was pointless.

"Wait." He held up a hand. "He's returning."

Rebecca frowned. "I don't hear anything."

"Quickly, get out to the road." Before she knew what he was about, he jumped to the ground and lifted her down.

"But—"

"He'll have found your riderless horse by now."

"Fine. Let him worry," she said, hands on hips.

"He's worried already. Rebecca," he pleaded and the deep rumble of his voice melted her heart. "You must return with him. If you don't, he'll go to the authorities, tell your aunt, who'll tell your father. They'll begin a search. It would only be trouble for me if they discovered you at Bridgewood."

That seemed to change her mind. "They'll think the worst."

"Yes. But I'll make sure he gets you to your family home safe and sound."

"But what about you?"

"It's better if he doesn't know I'm here. I'll follow at a distance."

He could tell she didn't like the idea, but her options were swiftly running out. Finally, she pressed her lips together and stepped up to the edge of hi-way just as Caleb rounded the bend, a nervous Cerus in tow.

"What will I tell him?" she whispered to the shadows.

"Whatever you have to."

Caleb saw her and kicked the horses into a gallop.

"Rebecca?"

"I'm here."

He jerked the horse to a stop in front of her and she grimaced at his treatment of the animal. "What the hell? Did you fall off your horse?" Caleb quickly dismounted and ran to where she stood.

"No. I'm fine."

He walked around her, assessing. "Were you hiding from me?"

"I didn't know it was you. You-you frightened me!"

He laughed. "Well, perhaps you shouldn't ride off into the night without an escort! Dammit, woman. That was reckless!"

"It wasn't. I'm an excellent rider."

"You know," he slapped his gloves together in a hand, "A woman who goes off alone like that—seems she's just asking for trouble. Or is just a thrill seeker."

"I am not."

"It begs the question—what kind of thrill were you after?"

She sucked in a breath.

"Just where were you headed?"

"Home, of course."

He stepped in close. "Really? You missed the turnoff some ways back. This road only leads to Bridgewood. But I suppose you knew that. Were you going to see your lover?"

Her quickly indrawn breath didn't cover the low growl from the woods. They both turned their heads.

It was Rebecca who recovered first. "Certainly not! Please, let's just get out of here." She started for her horse.

"Uh-uh. You'll be riding with me."

She shrunk back. "I don't think so."

"You'd be wrong." With that, he grabbed her around the waist and threw her up to the saddle before leaping up behind her with the ease of a seasoned rider. Rebecca leaned as far forward as she could to get away from him, but he yanked her back against him. For Alistair's sake, she didn't fight, knowing it would spell great trouble for him if his presence became known. Instead she tried to engage Caleb in conversation.

"Who else knows I'm gone?"

He laughed and she felt his breath in her hair. "No one. Which means we're completely alone. At night. Just the two of us."

He slowly walked the horses forward but seemed in no hurry.

"You know, I've been wanting to get you alone like this for a long time."

"Now's not the time, Caleb."

"Oh, I think it is. In fact," as he spoke, the hand around her middle slowly slid upward until it covered her breast, "I think it's long past time." The fingers slowly contracted over her tender flesh.

"Wh-what are you doing?"

"What I should have done long ago. Made you mine. Go ahead and fight it. This time there's no one to hear you scream." With that, he made a sudden jerk with his hand and the front of her gown ripped open. His hand, no longer gentle, probed painfully.

They both heard the roar just seconds before Caleb was literally flung off of her and thrown to the ground like a rag doll. That time she did scream.

"Oh my God! Is he dead?" Rebecca dropped off the horse and ran to where Alistair stood bent over the still body.

Alistair frowned at the concern she showed for a man who'd just assaulted her, but he was still fighting the effects of the adrenalin and struggling to calm himself down. Her anxious cries did nothing to help. "He's not dead," he managed, his voice still in transition.

She swung her head to look at him. "Your eyes!"

He closed them and turned away, still panting. "Don't be afraid of me. I'd never hurt you."

He waited. Silence. Finally, he felt calm enough to turn around. She stood clutching her bodice, staring at him with wide eyes. "You killed those men—the thieves."

It wasn't a question. He nodded. "I did it to protect you."

"And the young girl? The farmer?"

The quaver in her voice showed her fear, not that he didn't already know how wildly her heart was beating. "No."

"Then-then there's another?"

"Unfortunately."

"How many?"

He met her eyes. "I don't know. I know of only one other, but Bridgewood's files would suggest others, at least in the past."

Those eyes widened ever further.

"H-how—"

"Not now."

Caleb groaned at their feet. Her eyes shifted to him.

"We need to get him to the house. Do you–do you trust me?"

She looked down at Caleb then back up to him. She was still shivering with fear, but she nodded.

"Can you ride?"

She clutched her dress tighter. "H-he ripped my dress."

Alistair swore. Then he tore off his overcoat and wrapped it around her. "Give me a minute to secure him to his horse, then we'll go home."


	9. Chapter 9

_A/N - This chapter gave me trouble, but I think I've conquered it. As always, please let me know if I've screwed anything up. I hope you enjoy..._

**Chapter 9**

'Home' was still many furlongs away, but Rebecca didn't notice. Wrapped in Alistair's great coat with his arms securely around her, she was aware only of him—every breath, every tightening of muscle and sinew. She'd intended to ride her own mount, but he'd taken one look at her and nixed that idea. After securing Caleb to his ride, he lifted her atop Chameleon's back like she was nothing. And once again she knew the cocooning warmth of the man and his horse. Only now that man was a greater mystery than ever before.

Yes, he'd killed those men—the thieves. He hadn't denied it. Not that he would have told her the truth if she hadn't accidentally found out. But he'd done it to protect her—them—that much she knew. And strangely, she felt no fear—at least, in her mind. Her body was having a different reaction.

Rebecca looked behind them at Caleb's still form. Alistair could have killed him, too, but he hadn't. Thank God the jerk was still unconscious! If he knew who was responsible for his condition, and how—he could make big trouble. If the whole truth became known, it was Alistair who would be in real peril.

Her desire to protect him was overwhelming. She searched his face. Moonlight reflected in his eyes, but the strange yellow glow that had emanated from them only minutes before he attacked had completely disappeared. Unfortunately, her memory of them had not. She involuntarily shivered.

"Are you all right?" he asked, his voice dark and clipped.

Meaning, _are you okay with being held by a fearsome beast?_ Rebecca nodded. It was all she could do. Heart still thumping wildly, she had to clamp down on her jaw to keep her teeth from rattling audibly. All right? What did that even mean, anymore? In the space of a moment, he'd tipped the world on end. _Are you the same man who'd sought the peacefulness of wind chimes at twilight? The one who'd tenderly cared for my sister? The same who'd tried to push me away for my own good?_

As if he heard her unspoken questions, he looked down to answer.

It wasn't to be. Before he could speak, lights shown in the distance.

"Bridgewood," was all he said and kneed his mount in that direction.

* * *

"Charles!" Alistair yelled as soon as the trio of horses passed through the outer gates.

Moments later, a rumpled Charlie ran out the front door tucking his shirt into his pant waist. "Aye! I'm here!" he grumbled. "What be the—" He stumbled to a halt when he saw Rebecca and the other rider laid across his horse.

"Are the Millhouses on the property?" Alistair asked urgently.

"Nay. I sent 'em home after ye left. Figured we wouldn't be needin' 'em 'til morning."

"Good. Lock the outer gates then see to the horses."

Alistair dismounted and started untying Caleb.

"Alistair?" Rebecca implored.

"Not now."

"Blimey. What 'appened to 'im?" Charlie asked, yanking Caleb's head up by his hair to get a better look. Fresh blood stained his fingers. "Hey. Ain't he the bloke—?"

"Yes," the others answered in unison.

"Is he dead?"

"Unfortunately not," Alistair growled.

"He just hit his head," Rebecca added.

"_Another one?_ Blimey!" As Charlie tugged the iron gate closed behind them, she watched him stop and peer down the empty lane. "Iffin' anyone else be knocked in the head and needin' assistance out there," he called, "you'll just 'ave to wait. We're full up." With that, he clanked the gate shut and latched it.

Rebecca couldn't help it—she smiled. Charlie's Cockney accent appeared to be stronger when he was tired—along with his wit. She expected to see Alistair roll his eyes, but when she looked at him, his demeanor said he was anything but amused. He was _angry_.

"Help me get him onto the table," he directed as the two men carried Caleb's unconscious form into the manor. She followed close behind. "Rag." Alistair ordered and cleaned the blood from Caleb's temple as he examined him.

"_Alistair—_"

"Other than the bump on his head, he appears uninjured," he said, ignoring her.

"After what I saw back there—"

Charlie looked up. "Eh? What did ye see?"

"—you can't just shut me out!"

Charlie's eyes swung back and forth between the two of them.

At Alistair's forbidding look, Rebecca tugged the jacket tighter around herself and hesitated. "I-I saw . . ."

"—me," Alistair finished for her.

"Ye?"

Alistair grimaced. "She saw _me_. _I _did this!" He turned to his friend. "She _knows_." Turning his back to them, he walked to the wash basin, rinsed his hands in the tepid water, then threw the towel down in disgust.

Charlie looked at Caleb, then at Rebecca and Alistair. "She—you—?"

"Please give us a minute, Charlie."

"No." Alistair said without turning. "There isn't time. I don't know how long he'll be out. We must get you both back to your aunt's before he rouses."

"What? I'm not going anywhere with him!" She tugged on his sleeve. "Alistair, you know what he's capable of. And he never even saw you."

That made him turn. Alistair sighed and rubbed a hand across his face. _But you did_, he said with his eyes, and she saw the defeat in them.

She shook her head. "It doesn't matter. I'm not going back with him."

"Rebecca . . . ."

She shook her head. "I-I don't know what's going through your head right now, but I need . . . an explanation. _Something_."

He stalked over to her. "The explanation is simple, my lady. We've crossed a line and there's no turning back."

"Fine," she said, refusing to be intimidated. "I don't want to. But there's something you should know. There's a London detective looking for you—for _him_, I mean—the other one."

"_What?_" two heads swiveled together.

"He questioned me at Aunt Helen's. Detective . . . Billings, I believe it was. I was actually headed here to warn you. He asked me questions, Alistair. And he knew your name."

"How?"

"When I mentioned that you saved us from those marauders . . . ."

Charlie swore.

"I didn't know! I just wanted to assure him you were the good guy, but I . . . probably made things worse by calling attention to you, didn't I?" She put a hand to her mouth. "What have I done?"

"Gor! Let's get movin'!" Charlie cried. "Iffin' we follow the coast to the north, it'll cover our tracks—"

"No," Alistair said firmly. "We're not running. I'm too close. I have a killer to catch, and I need the answers I may find here."

"If that detective be followin' the same trail, ye could get caught in his trap, too, Doc!"

Rebecca gasped.

Rather than reply, Alistair set his jaw. "Get me a rope!" he ordered.

"Why? What—"

"We'll have to tie him in the saddle."

"Wait! Caleb? How can you worry about _him _at a time like this?"

Alistair spun toward her. "There is no _time_, my lady! We have to get you both back to your aunt's before the sun rises."

"Did you not hear me? I can't go back!"

"You can, and you will. I'll escort you. You won't be in any danger, I promise."

_From him or from me_, she heard him say without putting voice to it.

"I can't go back like this!" she cried, clutching at the jacket, and it finally got both men's attention.

"Oh."

"Yes. Oh. How am I going to explain . . . my dress?" She blushed and avoided Charlie's curious gaze. "Alistair, I'll go to my home. I can sneak in, change my clothes before anyone is the wiser—"

"Wait." He ran from the room.

Charlie shrugged then he took a step closer. "Miss, when ye say that ye saw '_im_—"

"I saw him change, Charlie. He . . . he protected me from Caleb. I won't tell anyone, I swear. His secret is safe with me. Just . . . please help him believe that. He said that there's another . . . ."

"Aye. The bad'un. He's been chasin' the bastard for a while now. Beggin' your pardon, ma'am."

She put a hand on his arm. "I can help. I want to—"

"Here." Alistair reappeared out of nowhere, a piece of green silk in his hands.

She took it, realized it was a dress, and looked up at him.

"Bridgewood's wife's, no doubt. It may be out of fashion, but it should fit you well enough."

When she merely continued to stare at it, he moved her bodily out of the room. "Quickly!"

Under the canopy of darkness, Rebecca waited on the stoop at the two men once again secured Caleb to his mount.

"Are you certain we can't go to my father's house? It's not so very far."

"How would you explain it? No, we'll ride for your aunt's, but we'll be lucky to get there before daybreak."

"No one in my aunt's household will be awake before noon. Her parties go on until the wee hours of the morning."

"Nevertheless, if we wait—"

"If we wait until morning and someone sees me arrive with Caleb, there will be hell to pay," she conceded. "My aunt may be a dear, but she's a stickler for convention. She'll realize we've been out all night together and insist on a wedding. Not even my father would be able to talk her out of it."

"That isn't going to happen."

The vehemence in his voice ran a shiver up her spine. But Rebecca was a realist. "What could you do?" And there were other pressures. "Caleb's father wants the marriage," she admitted. "It's been his plan all along, although I can hardly countenance it. There are any number of more eligible, wealthy, and _willing _young women—"

"None more beautiful or intelligent, I assure you."

She blushed and ducked her head, allowing him to lift her to Chameleon.

A little while later she couldn't hold her tongue any longer.

"Are you going to tell me about it, or not?"

Alistair looked back at Caleb—he was still out—then set his jaw and looked toward the empty road ahead of them. "It was a long time ago."

"We have a long ride ahead of us."

He grit his teeth, but eventually started speaking. "I was fresh from medical school and eager to learn."

As he related the narrative in his deep, rumbly voice, Rebecca leaned back into his warmth and listened.

"After a year in the field as a corpsman, I won a coveted spot—an opportunity to be mentored by one of England's most innovative and ground-breaking medical researchers, Dr. Avery—"

"—Bridgewood."

"Yes."

She twisted to look at him more fully.

"He told me the years he'd spent in the army, himself, had set his path. He'd been overwhelmed by the tragedy and loss of life, and was certain there was a way to assist the human body to fight disease and injury more effectively. But what began as a noble project eventually became an obsession."

"One that could have turned the tide of war and saved hundreds of lives," she offered.

"If only that had been the case. He started out experimenting on animals. Then he got bolder, scouring the back alleys for homeless and desperate men. Most of them didn't survive."

She gasped. "But surely _you _were not so desperate?"

"Me? Nay. After about a year working for him, I had the misfortune to come down with a form of bubonic plague while tending the sick in an isolated village. I guess he felt this would be better than death."

"You were _dying _and he experimented on you?!"

"I think he believed he was trying to save me. And at first, it appeared he had. After only one injection, I not only survived, but I rallied very quickly. It was a year before I started noticing the other changes. By that time, we had parted ways. I later heard he'd retreated to his estate here. It's where his wife is buried."

"There's a painting in the upper hall. What happened to her?"

"She apparently died quite young. There is a grave marker on the hillside behind the house."

"The wind chimes?"

He looked down at her and nodded. "Now that I look back on it, that may have been the beginning of his madness. I suspect his experiments grew as much from his frustration at not being able to cure her wasting disease as his desire to strengthen soldiers in battle."

"What about their sons?"

He shrugged. "He once admitted to me that his wife was unable to bear children. The boys in the picture were fostered."

"Ah." The painting made more sense. "They must be men now. I wonder where they are? But he left his estate to you."

He shook his head. "I confronted him, once, after I began to change. At first he denied having given me anything, but later broke down and confessed." His gaze touched hers again. "I . . . _persuaded _him."

"Y-you—"

"I transformed in front of him. It was the wrong tack. Once he saw the consequence of his actions, he was fascinated, and became even more consumed with perfecting it. But I believe he felt a measure of guilt. He and I had once been friends."

"He should have! And the estate was his way of paying you off! Friends don't experiment on friends!" she said heatedly.

He pressed his lips together. "It would have been better had I died."

"No! You can't think that! Alistair, what was done to you was wrong, but as long as you're alive there's a chance it can be reversed—"

"Not if I can't figure it out! I'm searching through his notes for anything that might give a clue as to what exactly I'd been injected with—but I'm only grasping at straws. The man bordered on genius. His notes are not easy to comprehend."

"Perhaps if you had help—"

"I can't risk anyone else knowing. They'd hunt me down, lock me up. God knows what else."

"But you're not a murderer! Surely they can see the dif—"

"Can _you?_" He leaned intimidatingly close until they were nearly touching noses.

She pressed him back, unimpressed. "There's only one monster here." She glanced over at the other horse. "And his name is Darrington."

Alistair forgot to breathe. Cloaked in darkness but for moonshine and scattered starlight, he nevertheless could see her clearly. And she didn't lie. "_God_." He leaned his head against hers. "Where have you been the last five years?"

Rebecca felt the weight of that question in the deepest part. As Chameleon slowed to a stop, she reached up and ran a finger over his brow, down his dimpled cheek, then across his lips. They parted. "Waiting for you."

They shared breath for a space of a few long moments until a groan behind them jerked them both around. Caleb grunted again and tried to lift his head. Alistair quickly backhanded him and he fell silent once more.

But it brought them both back to reality. He straightened and nudged the horses forward again. "The animal I'm after—that may be my fate, too." He looked her in the eyes. "I believe my condition is progressing. Not only must I find a way to stop him before he kills again, I need to find a way to stop _myself _before it's too late."

She gasped.

"Now how comfortable do you feel in my arms?"

Said with such a bitter tone, she ached for him. "You're not him, and it's not too late. We'll do it together. We'll find a cure."

"No. It's too dangerous."

"But Charlie—"

"Charlie understands the danger. And he feels indebted to me. I've tried, but I can't make him leave my side."

Once again she placed her hands on either side of his face. "And neither will I. Accept it. Once I get back home, I'll persuade my father to let me be your assistant. Together, we'll find an answer, I promise you. I only worry that this detective might mistake you for the villain. Perhaps you should leave the area for a while, just until the real killer is caught."

He sighed. "I can't leave the good people of Hillshire in danger. And I may be the only one who can stop him."

"But you could be caught, as well!"

"It's a risk I have to take."

As they turned the last corner, they were within sight of the brightly lit estate when Caleb began to rouse again. It was time. Alistair sidled up to Cerus, and set her back upon him.

She grabbed his jacket when he started to lean away.

"I'll be right here," he promised.

"But—"

He took her hand, lifted it to his lips, then nodded for her to proceed to the house. When she didn't move, he nudged her horse forward. As soon as he did, he regretted it. Looking toward the quiet house, he listened for movement. None.

"Wait."

Coming out of the shadows, he came up alongside her again, pushed a hand through her luxurious hair, and pulled her face to his. "I don't know why God sent me such a gift, but thank you." He touched his lips to hers. _Heaven, in every form of the word._

As soon as Rebecca started to respond and open her mouth, he had to force himself to pull back. He dare not linger.

"You're secret is safe with me, Alistair," she whispered.

_If only you were safe with me_. He held her eyes a long moment, then bowed his head and took a pace back. "Stay away from Bridgewood, Rebecca. _Please_." One last effort to persuade her. It was the last thing he wanted, but all he could do for her.

"But _why?_" She grabbed for his hand and held it until the natural pull of the horses forced them apart. He shook his head one last time and faded back into the woods.

Caleb made another noise and she turned to him, angry at the interruption. When she looked back, the shadows revealed nothing, even in the early morning light. She searched the tree line, knowing he must still be there. A blanket of fog filled the space between heaven and earth making her wonder if he'd ever really been there. The dress she wore confirmed it. Finally, she frowned and walked the horses to the front of the house and dismounted.

"What the hell?" Caleb groaned, his words slurred. He frowned and looked about him.

Rebecca smoothed her hair more firmly in place and put on her best disgusted face. "Can you dismount, or do you require assistance?"

He discovered the rope tied around his middle and looked askance at her.

"I went out for an early morning ride and found you on the side of the road. You must have fallen off your horse and hit your head. I apologize for the rope. It was difficult enough getting you back on in the first place. I didn't want to bother with it again. You don't remember?"

"I've never fallen off a horse in my life! And that isn't right. We were—" He looked at her dress—not the one from the night before—and frowned.

She didn't like his insulting perusal. "What is it?"

"You—I followed you to _Bridgewood _in the middle of the night—"

Rebecca put a hand to her chest in alarm. "I beg your pardon! I left the party early and went to bed with a megrim. My sister can vouch for that." A small lie, but one he wouldn't question. "I suppose that's why I awakened so early this morning. I went nowhere in the night, I assure you. Especially not with the likes of you!"

"The hell you did!"

A growl came from the woods and they both turned. It was a stupid move. "Stay right there, I'll get someone to help you," she said, pulling his attention back toward her. Then they heard the rumble of a carriage and horses approaching. She looked up, expecting to see Alistair. Instead, her father came into view riding alongside a coach.

Rebecca ran forward to greet him. "Papa!"

Eldon Reynolds tossed his reigns to the ground and dismounted. "Thanks be to God, you're safe, daughter! How fares Isabella? I came as quickly as I heard."

"Oh, papa, we're well. You needn't have worried."

"Helen sent word that your coach had been attacked."

"Yes. I'm afraid we fared better than it. Had it not been for our newest neighbor, Doctor MacGregor, we'd not be so hale. He saw to our well-being."

"Then I owe him a debt of gratitude."

Caleb laughed next to her and spat on the ground.

Eldon looked over at him and nodded. "Mr. Darrington?"

"Sir."

The elder Reynolds looked between them and squinted. "What brings the two of you out so early in the morning?"

When Caleb started to respond, she spoke over him. "Poor Caleb, Papa. I went for an early morning ride and found him on the ground. He fell off his horse."

"I did not fall—" Caleb started to say, then must have thought better than to argue with Rebecca in front of her father. He touched a hand to his sore temple instead.

"That's quite a bruise you've got there, son. As long as twasn't my daughter's doing."

Caleb looked at her. She warned him with a look. "Of course not, sir."

Rebecca hid a grin.

"Is your father about?" Eldon asked grimly. "I heard he was here."

"He left last night, sir. Had some business at home."

"I see."

"If you'll excuse me." Caleb sniffed in her direction then bowed perfunctorily and turned his horse toward the stables without a by-your-leave.

Her father frowned after him but Rebecca sighed in relief. "Oh, Papa! I'm so happy you've come. And so soon! We weren't expecting you for another several days."

He grimaced. "Yes, well, I'm afraid things were pretty much decided before I even got to court. There wasn't much I could do."

"What do you mean?"

"Finnegan's claim was going to be denied. I got a temporary stay in order to gather more evidence, but chances are he's going to lose his property. I wish I weren't the one to have to tell him."

"Oh, no! But why?"

He shook his head. "The court upheld Royce's prior claim. It makes no sense. That property has been in George's family for generations. If you ask me, it would appear someone has been paid off."

"The Darrington's have no need for more land!" she said heatedly. "What on earth could they be thinking? Surely there is something you can do."

"I'm working on it. But I need to make some inquiries." He smiled at her. "But enough of that. How fares my girl? New dress?"

"Oh, uh, just something I borrowed."

"Nice color for your eyes."

She looked down at the deep emerald fabric and blushed. The neckline was a bit lower than she normally wore. The fact that Alistair MacGregor had seen her thus made the heat bloom even more quickly in her face. "Thank you, Papa."

"Is Isabella up?"

"Not yet. Aunt Helen threw a soiree last night—you know how she can be."

He grimaced. "Indeed."

"I'll awaken Isabella for you."

He grabbed her arm. "No need, daughter. As long as she is well, let her rest. She'll awaken soon enough."

Rebecca smiled and linked her arm in his. "The good news is, it should be very quiet around here today!"

He laughed. "From your mouth to God's ears."

* * *

Isabella talked his ear off at breakfast.

"And Jonathan showed up at the party, Papa."

"Indeed?"

"And we even danced a waltz!"

"Over Aunt Helen's objections—" Rebecca added.

"But she's the one who organized it. She can hardly expect us to ignore such a thing."

Rebecca tsked and Isabella looked over at her. And frowned. "Where on earth did you find that dress?"

Rebecca put a hand to her chest. "Oh. This one? What? You don't like it?"

"I saw your blue one in the corner torn to shreds."

Their father looked up.

"Yes, I-I tripped over a twig in the garden and ripped it. You know me, clumsy as always. I thought I'd make rags of it."

"Silk doesn't work for rags," Isabella said. "Too bad. I really liked that blue dress."

"But not this one?"

Isabella studied it. "It's not bad. A little dated. Good color for you, though. Brings out your eyes."

"Did Jonathan stay the night?" their father asked.

Izzy frowned. "He had to get back. Oh, but the good news is, he wants me to meet his family. He said he will be returning in a week and will come to Hillshire with his sister, of all people!"

"Why, of all people?" Rebecca asked.

Isabella leaned over to whisper. "His sister is a bit of a recluse, I understand. Never goes out. He thinks I can help her come out of her shell."

"Is she shy?"

"Suffered some kind of trauma a few years back." Isabella waved her hand. "He said she just needs to get her sea legs again and she'll be right as rain. And I'm the perfect one to do it!"

Rebecca smiled. Her sister was a bubbly sort with a kindhearted spirit about her, especially for broken things. Just the type of person to bring out an awkward turtle.

"Then I'll expect your help in preparing for the dinner, my dear," Rebecca said.

"Oh, Papa, can't we hire that French chef from town? It's an important occasion!"

"I'm perfectly capable of overseeing the meal. That would be wasteful, Izzy. We can hardly afford—"

"Perhaps there is a trade we can work out," her father said, patting Isabella's hand. _Doting as always._

Isabella laughed in delight. Rebecca just rolled her eyes.

* * *

Caleb slowed as he neared his family home. As it was still relatively early, he hoped to slip in unnoticed and catch a few hours sleep before confronting his father. It wasn't to be. Royce stalked down the steps as soon as he approached

"Well?" he demanded without preamble.

Caleb shrugged. "I'm not sure what happened. She outwitted me."

Royce backhanded him. As it was to the same tender spot, it knocked him out and off of his horse again.


	10. Chapter 10

_A/N - Getting this up early this week as I'll be out of town for a few days. Thanks for hanging in there with me! Things are heating up. Not to tease or anything but next chapter, can we possibly say AMP? I'm just sayin'..._

**Chapter 10**

"So when do I get to meet this paragon of virtue, Dr. MacGregor?"

"I think he just goes by _Mr_. MacGregor, Papa. He isn't currently practicing medicine."

"Why not?"

"He's doing research."

"Indeed?"

"Yes. Not only is Bridgewood in need of repair, but he is trying to organize the previous physician's medical notes. He wants to study his writings."

"The house is simply dreadful, Papa."

"Isabella! Don't be unkind. It isn't _dreadful_."

"In need of a great deal of work, then."

"He's just starting to fix it up. It's true that the house has been quite neglected. One would think the elderly Doctor Bridgewood hadn't even lived there for years."

"A recluse, from what I understand." Eldon stated. "Some men become so absorbed in their work, they forget their surroundings."

"Yes, well, I'd like to help Mr. MacGregor, Papa. Not only with putting the house to rights, but with his research."

"You would?"

She nodded. "And it's the least we can do, Father."

"Hmm. I _am _in the man's debt . . . ."

"Yes, we are."

"But you can't just go there and work!" Isabella cried. "What would people think?"

"I hardly think the townspeople of Hillshire care a fig what I do on a daily basis, but it doesn't matter. He needs the help setting up his library, and you know how I love—"

"I'm not sure . . ."

"Please, Papa. There's a married couple working for him. I'd be perfectly safe."

Eldon Reynolds pursed his lips for a second. "Fine. I'll decide after I meet him."

"Oh, thank you!"

"That isn't a yes. Yet. And you'll take your sister with you when you go."

"_What?_" Two heads swiveled in unison.

Eldon shrugged. "Isabella could use some time spent in a library."

"But Papa!" Isabella shuddered.

"In the meantime, let's plan a little dinner party of our own, shall we? Send the man an invitation."

* * *

Charlie and Alistair were splitting timbers next to the stable the next morning when Charlie stopped and took a deep breath. "Smell that? Someone's got a wood fire burnin'. Hickory. Reminds me 'a home, it do."

He looked over to find Alistair standing still and alert. "I don't think it's a forest fire or nuthin'—"

"She's coming."

"What?" Charlie followed his gaze down the long, tree-lined drive. "She? Who?" There was no one on the road.

Alistair swore and wiped the sweat off his forehead. "Put a shirt on! Rebecca will be here any second."

His own shirt was open at the waist and he'd rolled up his sleeves. He was only half buttoned by the time she came around the corner on a pretty gray mare.

"Miss Reynolds. I didn't expect to see you again so soon."

The gentle reprimand in his voice was not lost on Rebecca, but she stopped and took an eye full. Even dressed down and dirty, he was still the most attractive man around—in many ways. Too bad he'd already started buttoning up that shirt. She would like to have seen the powerful torso behind the 'gentleman' façade.

He watched her approach with a wary but not unwelcoming look.

"Before you berate me for ignoring your last request, I come bearing a message."

He took the reins she handed him and lifted her down. Slowly.

"You're well?"

It had been a week. The longest of her life. She'd been in a fever wondering whether Detective Billings had stopped by yet and what he'd said. From the look on his face, perhaps he'd been concerned for her welfare, too. Short of brazenly dropping in for a visit, she'd come up empty of good excuses. Every day something had occurred to get in the way. Until now. She fingered the embossed invitation in her hand. Then held it out to him.

"What is this?"

"Open it. It's an invitation. To dinner.

"You're back at home now?"

"Yes. And my father would like to meet you."

He shook his head immediately. "I don't think that's such a good idea."

"Alistair." She put a hand on his arm—a very hard, muscular arm. "He just wants to thank you."

"So . . . what? We're going to start dating now? Do you not understand who I am—what I'm capable of? This isn't a game!"

She looked over at Charlie watching them. As soon as she did, his eyebrows went into his hairline.

"I think I've got some stalls to muck out," he muttered, and immediately quit the yard.

"_Alistair,_" she tried again.

"Do you think it was easy for me give you back to that animal? I nearly had to watch you be _raped_!"

The vehemence in his voice brought up the bad memories as if they were new. "Then why did you?"

He scoffed. "Why did I? I'll tell you why: He may be able to hurt you, but I could _kill _you in an instant!" He picked up a large tree stump and heaved it into the woods so hard the crack of pine reverberated through the trees for several seconds. When he finally turned back to her, his eyes were wide and light-colored but slowly fading to brown. The flash of anger was over almost as quickly as it had begun.

She put her hands on her hips, unwilling to be bullied, even by him. "But you won't. You're not the big, bad wolf. Now, if your little temper tantrum is over, I'd like to discuss this in a reasonable manner."

"Rebecca . . ."

"It's just dinner, Alistair. My father is a good, kind-hearted man. You've already met Isabella and not had her for breakfast. Or me, for that matter—and I've given you plenty of reasons to be angry."

Not that he wouldn't have liked to. _Breakfast with Rebecca._ Now _that _would be just this side of heaven, yes. _No_. Impossible. Alistair tamped down that inappropriate thought before it had a chance to bloom and focused his gaze on her eyes and not her incredibly slender—wait. Maybe her eyes weren't the best choice; they drew him in. _God, Almighty_. Was she a spirit sent to taunt him?

Rebecca tilted her head at him and he lost the game. And his anger. _Oh, Lord, woman . . . ._

"My father doesn't understand what kind of man Caleb is. I want him to realize there are other options for me."

"_I_ am not an option for you, Rebecca."

The look she gave him said she felt otherwise. "Then just come and be yourself. It's only a few hours—one evening of your time spent entirely on boring conversation and simple, country fare. Nothing newsworthy or threatening, I promise. Well, other than my sister. She has been known to go on and on about London fashions. It could bring anyone to tears."

He looked at her in exasperation.

"_Please?_"

* * *

"Well?" Charlie asked later, upstairs, eyeballs popping with curiosity.

Alistair gave him a jaundiced look and tossed the card at him.

"Ye been invited to dinner?"

"It would seem so. Saturday night."

"Gor! What'll ye do?"

Alistair sighed. This was definitely not on his to-do list. But what could he say? She regularly turned his resolve into jelly. "God, help me. I guess I'm going to dinner."

* * *

"I think it's fortuitous that Jonathan and Anna will be in the area at the same time, don't you?"

Rebecca set down her potting tools and hung up her gardening apron. "I just wish you had asked me first, Izzy."

"Well, you were already going to all the trouble for dinner. I thought we'd kill two birds with one stone."

Rebecca glared at her.

"Okay, bad choice of words. Jonathan is only here for a short time with his sister, and I—"

"I understand. It's just that I had been hoping for a quiet meal with just the three of us. I don't know how comfortable Alistair will be with anyone else. He's shy."

Her sister waved that away. "Oh, fiddlesticks. The man isn't shy! I've met him, remember? Doctors deal with people—strangers—every day. Why, if they were shy, they couldn't do what they do."

"Well, he hasn't been practicing medicine in that way for a while . . . ."

"And why is that, exactly? If you ask me, the man needs to get out more. This will be good for him. And I really want to meet Jonathan's sister. _Please_, Becca."

Isabella's joy and excitement had a way of rubbing off. She gave up and smiled. Somehow they'd work through it. "I look forward to meeting her, too."

"Yay! Oh, did I tell you she's a concert pianist?"

"What? No, you left that gigantic detail out!"

"Maybe we can convince her to play for us."

Rebecca thought about the piano forte in the corner of the large salon. Their mother was the only one to play. It had remained silent ever since her death. Just the idea of hearing it again nearly brought a tear to her eye. "That would be lovely, but don't you dare pressure her. You said she's just starting to come out of her shell again. I would hate to traumatize the poor dear."

"Jonathan says she hasn't given any concerts in a few years but is starting to play again."

"That's wonderful. Well then, let's hope for the best and let her make the decision."

* * *

The Marleys arrived a little earlier in the day to spend time with Isabella. After a brief jaunt through the countryside in the nippy fall air, they returned to the house to begin dinner preparations.

Anna stood quietly in the doorway to the kitchen. "Is there anything I can do?"

Rebecca looked up from slicing vegetables. "You must think us terribly odd. We have a perfectly capable cook, but I really enjoy cooking for special occasions and don't get to do it nearly often enough."

"I don't think that's odd at all." The girl smiled. "I enjoy it, too. It's become a new passion of mine in the last year or so. Don't tell Jonathan; he insists I spend all of my time at the keyboard."

Rebecca smiled sympathetically. "One cannot live on piano forte alone."

"Exactly!"

Rebecca laughed. "Then please, pull up a chair and dig in. Isabella makes herself quite scarce at a time like this."

"I believe she's in the garden with Jonathan."

"Ah. Of course."

Said couple burst into the kitchen moments later, laughing gaily. "There you are!" Isabella cried. She pulled the girl up from her seat. "Quickly! You must come and see."

Rebecca turned. "The ducklings?"

"But of course!"

Rebecca smiled and watched her sister and the young woman dash away. She shrugged at Jonathan. "A band of motherless ducklings. They've adopted her, I'm afraid. She's been mothering them for nearly a week now."

"Yes," he laughed. "I've met them."

"Poor things. I doubt they'll survive the winter. Father refuses to have them in the house."

"I don't blame him."

"Hopefully, by then, she'll have found another fascination."

He smiled. "By the way, I hear you're having another guest for dinner tonight."

"Yes. A Mr. MacGregor. I hope you don't mind. He's our newest neighbor. I wanted to introduce him to Father."

Jonathan went into a coughing fit. "MacGregor, did you say?"

"Do you know him?"

"Your pardon. Doubt it. The name just leaves a bad taste in my mouth." He looked worriedly in the direction of his sister.

"Oh, that's unfortunate. It's a rather common name, is it not? There must be hundreds of MacGregors in London."

"Probably so. Are you certain we haven't intruded? We practically invited ourselves."

"Oh, no. Not at all. With your sister in town, Isabella would have had a fit if we hadn't been able to have you over. Mr. MacGregor's just a little shy, but I'm sure it will be fine."

He nodded and seemed to shake off his concern. "Well, I do hope we won't be in the way. I wonder, though, if I might beg a favor?"

"What is it?"

"I noticed your piano forte in the corner. My sister was a concert pianist before . . . until a few years ago. She's a bit out of practice, but I wondered if you would ask her to play for you and your guest tonight? I think she just needs a bit of encouragement. And since you are kind enough to feed us . . ."

"Oh, la! You are not obligated to pay for your meal! But oh, I would just enjoy it immensely if she would play for us. Neither Isabella nor I are musically inclined, and the poor instrument's become terribly neglected. My mother used to play and I miss it—and her—very much."

"Then I warn you, you'll probably have to have it tuned afterward. She's a bit of a beast when she plays."

"A beast? That passionate?"

"Intensely so. But I guarantee you'll be moved."

"I can't wait. Perhaps I'll suggest she try it out beforehand and give me her opinion."

"She's probably already seen it and is dying to do so."

* * *

Alistair stood before the long, pedestal mirror. Why, of all days, did the tying of his cravat prove impossible? He turned exasperated eyes on Charlie, who'd just come in from outdoors. He hung his hat on the coat tree and studied his friend.

"Here, lemme help you," he said and snickered to himself as he straightened the tie.

"You think me a fool, don't you?"

"Ach. Ye dinna worry this much over what to wear to that fancy shindig a couple of weeks ago, but look at ye now. Fair skeered to death of a little woman. Ye look like yer headed to a funeral 'stead of a meal."

One could only hope his hosts wouldn't turn out to be the main course. He growled under his breath. "That 'little woman' is going to be the death of me, yet. She already has me attending dinner parties at her whim. What's next? Asking me to take her on a drive through the city park?"

"Do ye some good, it t'would."

"That's just it, Charlie. She wants me to be a normal guy. And I'm not."

"See, that's where ye be wrong, Doc." He pounded his temple with a knuckle. "It's all in here."

"I can't _think _away who I am inside!"

"No. But ye can control it."

If only it were that easy. His cravat finally tied, Alistair pushed Charlie aside, smug grin still intact, and grabbed his overcoat from the table. "Just . . . _pray_."

* * *

His prayers went unanswered. Luck ran out before he even got to the house. As Alistair turned Chameleon down the drive, he heard it—piano music. Played with a distinctive style he hadn't heard in years. Had he not still been astride his horse, it would have driven him to his knees. _No._ It couldn't be.

Rebecca didn't seem the sort to play a musical instrument, although he wouldn't put it past her. She seemed infinitely capable, just not the type. Isabella, on the other hand . . . But no. He knew the answer without seeing the proof. Only one person played with that kind of fierce and unrelenting passion: Georgie. But that made no sense at all. What could she be doing at Rebecca's house?

He had to know for certain. Leaving Chameleon in the shadows of the drive, he dismounted and crept around to the back side of the house. In the yellow glow of a dozen candles, a shiny golden head bent over the keyboard in intense concentration. The piece was one he remembered quite well, but he had to see her face to be sure. Finally, the music ended in a grand flourish and she lifted her head in an achingly familiar way and glanced out the window—directly at him.

Alistair froze.

Recognition hit them both at the same time. Clothed in long shadows and dark attire, he couldn't imagine she saw much, but he heard the tiny gasp followed by some sort of breaking glass. He didn't wait around to discover just what it was. He vanished into the night.

* * *

Charlie was just fixing to head to the kitchen when Alistair burst through the door and ran up the stairs to his bedroom. Charlie followed right behind. "What 'appened? You ain't been gone for more'n an hour. Chameleon all right?"

Alistair ripped off his cravat and bent over his desk, breathing hard. "A mistake, that's what happened!" He jerked off his jacket and threw it on the bed.

"Did they . . . laugh at 'cha or somethin'? Burn the food? I can't see Miss Rebecca—"

"Georgie!"

"Beg pardon?"

"She was at their house!"

Charlie stopped, stunned. "What're ye sayin'? Miss Georgiana was at the Reynolds'?"

"Yes!"

"Ach. How'd that happen? W-what did she say?"

"I obviously didn't go in, thank God. I just saw her through the windows."

"You was peepin' through the windows? Maybe it was just someone who looked like her—"

Alistair shook his head. "I heard her playing the piano, Charlie. Her unmistakable playing. I had to be sure, so I watched through the window until she turned. It was Georgie, all right. She may have seen me, too, but it was dark; I don't think she could know for certain it was me. But if Rebecca told her my name, then it's all over."

Charlie felt the weight of his words. If nothing else, it meant not only leaving behind the research Alistair so desperately needed, but leaving Miss Rebecca, which couldn't be easy for the man. "We'll leave in the night, then. Just up and go. We've nothin' tying us here. I'll start packing."

Alistair stopped him with a hand on his arm. He took a breath, then another one, before the calm began to spread. "No. As much as I'd like to run, that would only make me look guilty of something. I didn't mean to hurt her, Charlie. You know that. But I had no choice. I thought she understood. Who knows? She may not say anything to anyone."

"Ye said she was a might fragile."

"She was. Perhaps things have changed. I don't know, but I need to find out why she's here." He dropped into the overstuffed chair and ran a hand through his long hair. "Send Harold Millhouse to the Reynolds' in the morning with my regrets."

"What shall we say 'appened?"

"Just apologize. No excuse. Wait. No." That wouldn't do. Rebecca would be on the doorstep by morning demanding answers. "Say a . . . medical emergency came up."

"Whose?"

"Yours."

"_Mine?_" Charlie squeaked.

"Think you can fall into the ravine without breaking anything vital?"

Charlie patted his hat back onto his head. "I feel like a walk in the moonlight."

* * *

"Let's go ahead and eat."

Isabella frowned at her sister. "Are you certain? Perhaps he was delayed by some urgent business."

_Or maybe he wasn't ready to meet her father after all._ Rebecca frowned. "It doesn't matter. Dinner will be spoiled if we wait any longer." She peered out the window one last time and squinted at the shadows. No horse or rider approached. Finally, she yanked the curtain shut. "Come. Let's call everyone to the table."

Rebecca pressed the worry from her mind. Whatever his reasons, she couldn't help him. Not now. She sent a prayer heavenward, put on her happy face and joined the others.

* * *

As soon as breakfast was done the next day, Rebecca rode her mount to the manor. She found Charlie just coming out of the stable.

"Is he here? Is he all right?"

"I'm here." Alistair came around the corner, his face grim.

She studied him. "Are you well?"

"Yes. Rebecca, please forgive me."

"No, I'm . . . I'm just glad to know nothing bad happened."

"Not unless ye be countin' _ghosts_ . . . ." Charlie murmured as he hoisted a saddle off the fence.

"What ghosts?"

Alistair growled a warning at him. "Have your houseguests left?"

"Yes, unfortunately. Jonathan suddenly remembered he had an urgent meeting to attend. They left for London late last night."

Alistair could guess just what had prompted such a hasty departure. "Jonathan . . . ."

"Marley. Isabella met him two years ago in London when she had her coming out. She's . . . sweet on him."

Alistair shot a look at Charlie.

"She's terribly disappointed, of course. He brought his sister to meet her for the first time. She sends her best wishes, by the way."

"Please convey my apologies to both your sister and your father. I'm truly sorry I wasn't able to make it."

"Certainly."

Rebecca looked around and seemed to release her anger. In the light of day, the changes they'd made were more easily seen. Then she took a good look at Charlie for the first time and gasped. "Oh, my! W-what happened?"

Charlie played the role to perfection. "Ach, this?" He touched the bandage on his head. "Took me a spill last night—"

"Was this the 'medical emergency' you mentioned? Well, why didn't you say so!" She quickly dismounted and rushed over to him.

He blushed to the tips of his blond roots. "Aw, now, it 'tain't nothin'. I zigged when I shoulda zagged, is all."

"Nothing broken, I hope?"

"Just me pride, milady."

"Well, it's fortunate you live with a physician." Apparently satisfied, Rebecca looked around—everywhere but directly at him.

Charlie cleared his throat and Alistair finally spoke into the awkward silence. "I guess, since you're here . . . would you like to see what we've done?"

She sucked in a breath. "Absolutely!"

He handed the horse's reins to Charlie and led her around to the back yard.

"You're planting a garden?"

"Actually, one already existed. We just uncovered it. When we did, we found carrots, potatoes, kale—and some other plants I haven't yet identified."

"Herbs, too. See, over there is rosemary."

"I told you that twern't a weed," Charlie put in.

Alistair grinned. "Charlie's in charge back here. A good thing."

"Me Pa were a master gardener," he proudly added.

"Then why can't you cook?" Alistair groused good-naturedly.

"Have you been working in the library, then?" she asked him.

"Part of the time. I spend the other half up there," he said, pointing to the hill just beyond the ravine. The one with the wind chimes. "Want to see? It's a little bit of a climb."

"I can do climbing."

He laughed. "Yes, you can."

They traveled down the deep ravine and then up again. When he lifted her the last few feet, she saw them. "Grave stones?"

"Yes. It's a cemetery of sorts."

Rebecca stepped carefully through the area, examining each uncovered marker. "Odd. A family plot, perhaps? Doctor Bridgewood must have had a very large family. I didn't realize."

"They'd been here for generations, but these are not that old. And they're not of any his relatives."

Her eyes swung to his.

"Dogs, mostly. At least, that's what it looks like. Dozens of them."

"He was a breeder, then?"

He nodded. "At least at one time. There are journal entries about them."

An open hole nearby had recently been dug.

"You're digging them up? For what purpose?"

Alistair grimaced. "I needed to make sure what was buried here. I was afraid . . . ."

"That there were people buried there as well?"

"I had to be certain."

A loud clunk was heard, followed by Charlie's excited exclamation.

"What is it?" Alistair asked.

"Some kind of metal. A box, it looks like." Charlie dug around it with his hands a minute, then pulled something small out of the ground. "Look at this! Think it be filled with treasure?"

All three converged on the find. After brushing it off more carefully, they could see it was a heavy rectangular box the size of a small book. A small padlock secured the clasp. Alistair hefted it. "Too light to be coinage."

"And locked. Too bad. I hate t' ruin it, but there'n be no other way." Charlie lifted his axe.

"Wait!" Both men turned to Rebecca. She fingered the chain around her neck and pulled it out. At the end was a key.

"The one from the fireplace?" Charlie asked.

"Worth a try, right? It must have belonged to s_omething_." She unclasped the chain and offered him the key.

He studied it. "Looks t' be about the right size," he said. The bow, or rounded end of the iron key, had been delicately carved to resemble an animal, which is what made her think of it.

Charlie handed it and the box to Alistair who wiped away more dirt and placed the key into the lock. "Here goes."

To everyone's amazement, it fit. He was about to lift the lid when Charlie held out his hand. "Wait!"

The others looked up at him.

"What if . . . what if it's a bad omen—something someone buried for a reason?"

Alistair looked from Charlie's frown to Rebecca's arrested gaze. "Superstitious?" he asked her.

"Not a'tall," she said.

"Good." He gave it a quick twist and the padlock fell open.

Inside, a small object was wrapped in a dark cloth. Alistair made quick work of removing the cloth, then tipped the contents of the smaller bad inside into his palm. A large stone, deep green in color, winked at them in the sunlight.

"Gor! We're rich!"

"With what we've uncovered in the vault, we're already rich," Alistair murmured and turned it again in the light. "But this is no emerald."

"Are ye certain?" Charlie snatched it away and studied it himself.

"Similar, but not the same. I could be wrong, but I haven't seen a gem of that color in a natural stone before." He looked at Rebecca and was reminded of how stunning she looked in the green dress. He handed it to her. "Here. A trinket for you."

She gasped. "What? I can't take that! It might be very valuable."

"I doubt it. A gem that size is almost unheard of. It's most assuredly fake. But it would look beautiful with your eyes."

"But . . . shouldn't we find out why was it buried?"

He shrugged. "A mystery." One of many, and doubtless nothing to do with a cure. He placed it into her right hand and took the other into his. "Come, I want to show you the rest of the house."

Alistair led her around the corner in the direction of the door, but as soon as they were out of sight of Charlie, he pulled her to him. "Hi," he said. "I missed you." With that he kissed her. Rebecca unconsciously wound an arm around his head, pressing him closer. His facial hair tickled and teased.

It was minutes before he came up for air. "Your pardon, milady, but I've been wanting to do that for the last hour," he said, and leaned her gently back against the brick façade. A good thing.

Flushed and tingling, Rebecca tried her best to sound firm. "Apology accepted, but unnecessary. I thought you didn't want me to come back."

He sighed. "Yeah. I've been meaning to talk to you about that."

"Oh?"

"And your penchant for ignoring my wishes." He punctuated that with a series of hot kisses down her neck and then up across her jaw.

He appeared to be ignoring them, himself. She tried to breathe. "I've been . . . meaning to talk to you about _your _penchant for sending me away."

"A rather ridiculous idea."

"I quite agree," she said, breathless.

He sighed again and she felt the warmth of his breath against her cheek. "If I could, I'd lock you here with me and throw away the key. Or better yet, run away with you to parts unknown."

She blushed profusely.

"Rebecca, I sincerely apologize for missing dinner. Have you forgiven me?"

"I might need a little more persuading."

He laughed, no doubt at the bright color of her cheeks. But before he could kiss her again, she turned serious. "I was afraid you didn't trust yourself."

He shook his head. "I don't. Not around you." He leaned in and nuzzled her neck again.

She pushed him back. "But why? You seem perfectly trustworthy right now."

He laughed and it tickled, deep inside. "Do I? You have a very strange concept of the word 'trustworthy,' Madam. Actually, right now you're driving me crazy, but I still feel . . . in control."

"That's a good thing," she said with feeling. "Perhaps you're changing, getting better—"

He pushed away from her. "No. As much as I wish it, it isn't happening. If anything, I've gotten worse. Which is why," he brushed an errant hair from her cheek and she felt the change in his demeanor once again, "this is incredibly dangerous and risky, for both of us."

"And yet there's this powerful draw."

"Yes. But it can go nowhere."

Always it comes down to this: a pull and then a push. Disappointed, she took another step away. "Well, I can see I've worn out my welcome for today."

The hurt in her voice echoed his own sentiments.

"As much as I want that tour, I really must be getting home before someone starts to worry. My father may be a tolerant man, but he's got a gun and knows how to use it."

"As well he should. Rebecca . . ."

"I can see myself out."

He would have none of it. Taking her hand, he led her through the back door and across the foyer to the entryway.

Rebecca smoothed her hair back into place just before the housekeeper, who startled at the sight of company, came around the corner. She nodded to the older woman.

Just as they opened the door, a rider approached. "Speaking of guns," Alistair murmured at her side.

"Detective Billings?" Rebecca easily recognized the man's proud bearing.

He dismounted before them and bowed curtly. "Miss Reynolds. I had no idea I'd find you here. Good day to you, Ma'am."

She nodded and started to answer when Alistair interrupted.

"She just stopped in to check on my man of affairs. He was injured last night."

"Man of affairs, huh? I'll be wanting to talk to him, as well."

"One moment." Alistair led her to her horse and helped her mount. "Thank you for your kind wishes, Miss Reynolds. And please greet your father and sister for me."

Rebecca looked between the two men, anxious to stay and hear the conversation but without an excuse to do so. "I'll stop by again soon," she said reluctantly. "Please tell Charlie good-bye for me."

"I will."

"You may want to hear this, Miss Reynolds." Detective Billings saved her.

"Indeed?"

"There've been more suspicious deaths in the area. It would be wise of you to take a groom with you on errands such as this."

She put a hand to her throat. "Deaths?"

"Yes, Ma'am. One week ago near your Aunt's—I learned of it after I spoke with you. And another last night." He turned to Alistair. "It's just a matter of routine, but I'd like to know your whereabouts on those evenings, sir."

"Detective Billings!"

"Standard procedure, Ma'am, in cases like this. I've already been to your home and spoken to your father."

"I'll have Charlie saddle a horse and return with you," Alistair told her.

Billings nodded in agreement. "I can speak with him another time."

She frowned. Was Alistair so anxious to be rid of her? Why? "That won't be necessary. I live just down the hill." She started to nudge her horse forward, when Alistair stopped her.

"Wait." He pulled a small, leather bound book out of his pocket. "This is for you. I'd intended to give it to you last night—to replace the one you lost."

Rebecca looked down at the cover of the journal, intricately tooled with a skilled hand—a much more expensive and higher quality book than her old one. She looked at him.

He nodded. "My gift to you."

With that, Alistair patted her horse's flank and sent her on her way.

* * *

As soon as she crossed the gate to her home, Isabella ran out to greet her.

"Where have you been?"

She dismounted and handed the reins to a groom. "Just visiting a sick neighbor. Why?"

Isabella turned and flashed a worried glance toward the house. "Rebecca—"

Just then Royce Darrington came out of the house, her father at his side. He smiled at her, but it sent a chill down her spine. Why was he there? Something to do with the recent deaths, she assumed. He tipped his hat to her father and walked up to her. Placing a thick hand beneath her chin he said simply, "Pretty child." Then he nodded and left.

Rebecca stared after him for a moment, then turned to her father.

"Rebecca. I'd like to see you inside, please."

It wasn't a tone she was used to hearing from her father—certainly not in many years—and for a moment she feared someone had witnessed that stolen kiss behind the house and had raced home to tell him. The worried look on Isabella's face made her frown. "Certainly, sir," she said, and ran quickly up the steps. She followed him into his study.

"What is it, Papa? What's happened?"

"You're to marry Caleb by month's end, and there'll be no discussion about it."


	11. Chapter 11

_A/N - Okay, I'm rather anxious to know if I did this chapter justice. Lots of blood, sweat and tears. So please let me know as soon as possible! *runs and hides...*_

**Chapter 11  
**  
Eldon Reynolds ignored his daughter's outraged exclamation and proceeded with putting on his jacket.

"Papa!"

"Did I say no discussion?"

"Yes, but—"

"Then that means _no discussion!_"

Rebecca followed him across the room, her arms raised. "I don't even know how to react to that. You've _never_—"

"Well, perhaps I should have! You've been free to do and think as you please for far too long. Do you think I want to be saddled forever with a daughter who can't find a man to suit her perfect standards to save her life?"

Saddled? Rebecca frowned. When had she become such a burden? This wasn't the Eldon Reynolds she was familiar with. She shook her head. Whatever his reasons, he must be made to understand. Dare she be bold? It was risky, but . . . "What if I have?"

"No discussion!"

"But you aren't even giving me a choice!"

He stopped short. "And if I did?"

She blanched. "I _wouldn_'t choose Caleb Darrington!"

He pushed her aside as if to say 'not good enough.'

"Then . . . Alistair MacGregor!"

He spun around. "Never!"

"But—why? I know you haven't officially met him yet, but—"

"You are not to see that man again, do you hear me? Don't even speak of him. Detective Billings was here this morning. MacGregor is one of his chief suspects. Royce Darrington came along shortly after and said the same thing. Both men have MacGregor under suspicion for the recent murders. Put that together with what Jonathan Marley told me before he left, and—"

Rebecca jolted. "Jonathan? What on earth could Jonathan Marley have to say about Alistair MacGregor?"

He shook a finger at her. "Plenty! That poor girl—she was hurt by a MacGregor – a _doctor _MacGregor. And she's never been quite right since! If you think I'll let my own daughter get involved with the likes of such a man, you have another think coming."

No, no, no. This was all wrong. Rebecca grabbed his arm. "Please, Papa. I can't fathom what possible connection Anna Marley could have to Mr. MacGregor, but there must be another explanation. He is a kind and gentle man with a good heart."

"Miss Georgiana isn't the type of woman to lie."

Georgiana? As in _Georgie?_ "Excuse me. Georgiana?"

"Yes, young Jonathan said she no longer goes by her full name for fear he'll find her. To think what she might have endured had he shown up for dinner—at my house!"

It couldn't be. Alistair's Georgie was Anna Marley? Too many questions swirled in her head. Rebecca couldn't put all the pieces together, but one thing she knew—she could not give Alistair up. There were things he needed to hide, yes, but he was _not _the killer. Oh, this was awful, awful, awful.

Before her father reached the door, she tried one more time. She had to, or everything would fall apart. "Papa, please. I mean no disrespect, but you're wrong. Everyone is wrong. There's been a-a terrible mistake!"

"Billings doesn't have the evidence, yet, for a conviction, but when he does—"

"I know Alistair is not the killer!"

"_Alistair?_"

Her use of his given name was not what her father wanted to hear, but he would learn the truth eventually anyway. "I . . . thought to tell you in a different way, but I. . . I think I love him, Papa."

Elden froze and for a moment when as white as the colorless locks of hair he now sported. Then his face reddened and his hands balled into fists. If she didn't know him better, she would think he was on the verge of an apoplexy. She had never seen him thus. She took a wary step back but nevertheless pressed on. "I-I won't marry Caleb, Father. Even if you decree it." He'd have to drag her kicking and screaming to the altar. "I will _never _marry Caleb Darring—"

He hit her.

The strike was so hard and unexpected, Rebecca went down onto one knee. Her father had never hit her in his life. Putting a shaking hand to her numb cheek, she looked up at him.

Her shock was mirrored in his eyes. It was obvious he didn't know how to react—concern warred with anger in the fine lines of his face. Anger apparently won out. He took a step and leaned over her to speak in a low and deadly tone. "Now you listen to me. I haven't asked anything of you in all the years since your mother passed, but _by God_, you will obey me in this or I'll send you to my brother in New York. Do. You. Understand. Me? The banns will be read this Sunday, and you will marry Caleb the following week."

With that, he swore viciously and stepped around her, slamming the door in his wake.

* * *

Her father was not a cruel man. In fact, he was a very measured and thoughtful, non-judgmental man preferring empirical evidence to hearsay and gossip any day. Why, he spent his days locked in his study pouring over legal volumes and 'working hard for the little people,' as he liked to put it. He was certainly not one to make rash decisions, demands or ultimatums. And he was far too soft-hearted with his motherless daughters to ever dictate their thoughts or life choices. _Until now.  
_  
Rebecca sat in the center of her four poster bed surrounded by a fluff of tissues. Before he left, he'd returned to the study, lifted her to her feet with one not-so-gentle hand, walked her to her second story bedroom and locked the door. She was still so stunned by the turn of events, she couldn't even move.

Finally, she lit upon the only answer that made any sense at all—he was afraid for her. If he truly believed Alistair was the killer—and no doubt Royce Darrington and Detective Billings had convinced him of it—then of course he would move heaven and earth in order to protect her. Love made people do all sorts of strange things, did it not? Indeed, there were many tales of parents doing near-impossible feats to save their children. It could make one inhumanly strong, able to endure great suffering, or patient beyond imagining. It could even make one hide the truth from those they loved in order to protect another. As she was doing for Alistair.

She sighed. One thing was certain: she must find a way to get word to him. If he was under suspicion, he must be very careful. People would misunderstand. And if he got angry? _No._ She couldn't even go there.

Rebecca fingered the pretty green stone in her pocket and pulled it out. It may not be of any great value, but to her it was priceless. Shoving aside the blankets and pillows with which she'd barricaded herself, she went to her dresser and dug around through her jewelry box until she found what she was looking for. Carefully unwinding the wire from around a shell pendant, she fashioned a cage to hold the stone then looped the chain around her neck. The gem hung below the neckline of the gown she wore, but that was fine with her. It was near her heart, and that's right where she wanted it.

She pressed her hand against it and studied her reflection in the mirror. _Oh, Alistair. _Papa was wrong. Royce Darrington was wrong, and Billings was, too. And love would find a way. It must.

Isabella came in sometime later with a platter of food and a sympathetic smile. Rebecca was so lost in thought, she missed the opportunity to run for the door before it clicked shut behind her sister. For as much as she tried, Izzy didn't seem to have that much to say. Rebecca did, however, and gave her a piece of her mind about autocratic, domineering men who abused their power, jumped to conclusions without solid evidence, and spread vicious, hurtful rumors. Isabella didn't get the hint about Jonathan, so she gave up and ignored her.

Back on the bed, she ran her finger over the embossed cover of the leather journal Alistair had given her. Blank pages filled the binding just waiting for her to pour out her innermost thoughts. If only she had any. She felt as blank and dead as they.

"What's that?" Izzy asked, glancing over.

Rebecca slid the book beneath her skirt. "Nothing. Just a journal to replace the one I lost."

"Oh. That's nice."

Rebecca turned away from her. What tales of love and adventure would she have to tell now? Her hopes and dreams were going to come to a swift and bitter end. Finally, she laid it aside and sent Isabella on her away.

Later she realized the door wasn't even locked. At dinnertime, she walked out to the stables just to see if she could do it. No one stopped her, but when she asked the groom to saddle her horse, he declined. She stomped back to her room.

Jessica Breckenridge arrived a little while after.

"Oh, Jess!"

"I couldn't believe what they told me! You're getting _married?_"

"How did you know?"

"Word travels fast among the household staff—you'd be surprised. I came here as quickly as I could." Jessica went to hug her and gasped when she saw the bruise.

"It doesn't hurt. Not anymore. At least, not if I don't touch it."

"And he locked you in your room? That's medieval!"

"I'm not locked in, but I'm basically a prisoner in my own house. When I went to the stables for my horse, the groom informed me he was under strict orders not to allow me a mount under any circumstances."

Jessica sat down on the edge of the bed with her. "I can't believe your father would do that, much less make you marry Caleb, whom I'm sure he knows you no longer fancy."

"I've never spoken to Papa about Caleb."

"Why not? He's such a bully!"

Pleased to know her friend at last understood that, she continued. "It's worse than that, Jess."

She looked up. "Worse? How?"

"He . . . tried to force himself on me."

"What? When? Recently?"

"While I was at my aunt's. He came upon me when I was alone, and—"

Jessica gasped. "Why is this the first time I'm hearing about this? Becca, you need to tell your father about that right away. He would never chain you to a man like that."

"But I can't!"

"Why not?"

"Because . . . Alistair rescued me."

"So? Why is that a secret?"

Rebecca shrugged and turned away. "I wasn't where I should have been. I was on my way to see him . . . at night."

"Whoa. Okay, this is news. You sneaked out to meet Alistair in the middle of the night, and somehow Caleb caught you before you got there, and . . ."

"He ripped my dress . . . among other things."

Jess covered her mouth.

"Alistair came up behind and knocked Caleb out. Caleb never even knew what hit him." Skipping the part where Alistair took them to Bridgewood and found her another dress, she continued. "Then, after ensuring we were both okay, Alistair took us both back to Aunt Helen's. We tied Caleb to his saddle and when he awoke, I . . . I told him he must have fallen off his horse and that I found him when I went riding in the morning."

"You took advantage of his confused state and told a bald-faced lie?"

Rebecca nodded. "It was his word against mine, Jess. I couldn't risk anyone knowing what I'd done or who I'd been with, and neither could he."

"So in serving up that untruth, you also protected Caleb."

Rebecca sniffed. "What choice did I have? You know how these things turn out. Somehow it's always the woman's fault. And then we're trapped."

"As you are now, anyway. There _are _good men out there, Becca."

Oh, yes. That she knew.

"I'm so sorry. I wish there was something more I could say or do."

Rebecca's eyes lit up and she grabbed her friend's arms. "Could you get a message to Alistair at Bridgewood?"

Jessica started to recoil then thought better of it. "You know I would if I could. But they're watching me, too. I was 'escorted' over here, you know, I guess to try to cheer you up."

Rebecca dropped her head into her hands. "What am I going to do?"

Jess walked to the window and looked out upon the grounds. The late afternoon sun was fading fast as a thick layer of dark clouds moved in. It looked like rain. That suited both their moods. A sturdy fruit tree blocked out most of the light that was left, making it even darker in the room. They'd have to light the sconces soon. Then she blinked. "Becca."

"What?" she said without looking up.

"You know, it's not that far from here to Bridgewood."

"I suppose not. Why?"

"The tree."

Rebecca looked up with interest then slumped back down, realizing what her friend was thinking. "We tried that once before, remember? The limb broke off and you broke your arm. And I got scolded for it—although not even then did my father _hit _me!"

"But that was years ago. We were barely ten years old. The tree is much larger and closer now. Look."

Rebecca wiped her eyes and slowly got to her feet. She didn't hold out much hope for what she knew Jess was suggesting, but she would look anyway. When she did, her outlook changed. The tree had indeed grown more stout and strong. And one thick limb was within reach if she leaned out far enough.

"When I leave, I'll tell them you're so upset you're throwing things—that'll keep Izzy away—and that you don't want dinner and have gone to bed. Lock the door from the inside, wait until it's clear, then," she wiggled her fingers, "simply climb down the tree."

"And _walk _to Bridgewood?"

"It's not that far. Truly. A few miles at most. Emmie walked home from Southridge once when she was miffed at my parents for some odd thing. You're far older and stronger."

Rebecca bit her lip, considering. "But if I do and get caught . . ."

"What can your father do? Force you to into marriage?"

Rebecca's lips twisted. "Right."

Jessica put her hands on her friend's shoulders. "I know you, Rebecca Reynolds. You put your heart and soul into everything you do, and you don't love lightly. I don't know this Alistair MacGregor person very well, but if you care for him . . . well, what does your heart say?"

Rebecca put a hand to her chest. "I think it says . . . I love him. I want to be with him. That seems silly, I know. How could it happen so fast? But it has, Jess. And there's this feeling in my gut—and my heart. I don't want to lose him."

"Then don't. Go to Bridgewood. Now, pick up that vase and start throwing things."

* * *

What seemed doable in the light of day was much more complicated in the dark. And dangerous. The final drop from the tree had been unexpectedly far, and Rebecca had a bruised ankle, now, to prove it. She clutched her wool wrap more closely about her shoulders. That was another thing she hadn't thought out too well. That, and the green dress. In a fit of daring, she'd put it on. The deep green hue would help disguise her outside. No glowing in the dark this time! But the dress was thinner and more snugly fit than her other, more practical garments, but the green stone looked like it was made for it—or the dress made for it. In either case, she'd taken a long look in the mirror and recognized the power of her femininity for the very first time. Unfortunately, female power did not keep one warm. Gathering her wrap—the only covering she had in the bedroom—she put one foot shod in soft, kidskin leather onto the window ledge and reached for the limb.

The fall at the end was unexpected, but she was committed now. Babying her right ankle as much as she could, she took off at as brisk a pace as she dared in the direction of Bridgewood.

Two hours later, not only was she limping, but both feet were bruised and bleeding through her thin slippers. And it had begun to rain. She wanted to cry.

* * *

Charlie poured two glasses of brandy and took one to Alistair where he reclined in one of the chairs before the fire in the study.

"Thought you might've sought your bed. Here. This'll do ya, Doc. Nasty night out."

Alistair took the glass and grunted his agreement, although he didn't have the same revulsion for a storm as his best friend. "I was on the roof." _Thinking of Rebecca_, but his friend didn't need to know that. From the vantage point he could see clear to the ocean, much less to the edge of town where he knew she dwelt. She was as constant in his thoughts as the unrelenting waves, it seemed.

"Ah."

"Have the Millhouses gone home for the night?"

"Aye. And I'm thinkin' of headin' into town, meself."

"In this weather?"

Charlie shrugged. "Better 'n stayin' here. Too dang creepy. Fair makes a man crazed. Don't think I'd like this place in a storm."

Alistair grinned. The wind had picked up and was rattling the wind chimes, the eerie sound enough to put an unholy fear in Charlie's eyes. He didn't doubt the man's anxiousness to leave.

"Besides, I been needin' a bit o' entertainment."

"A woman, you mean."

Charlie blushed but cracked a grin. "That too, I reckon."

Alistair laughed. "Go on, then. Maybe I'll go for a ride myself. Chameleon would appreciate it, and he doesn't mind the rain."

"To visit yer lady friend, hey?"

"Perhaps . . . from afar."

"Ach, I knew it!" Charlie finished his drink and stood. "Ye canna resist. I'll be off, then. See you in the morning."

"Good night."

Alistair finished his drink more slowly, then rose. Dark nights were the best. After banking the fireplace coals, he'd just donned his overcoat when he heard it. He froze. It couldn't be. _Rebecca?_ Here again—at night? It wouldn't be the first time, he reminded himself with a chuckle. He hurried to the door when he realized he hadn't heard an accompanying horse trotting alongside her. He frowned. And her heart was beating much too fast. Never mind Chameleon. He ran.

The black veil of night had fallen swiftly over the countryside, but he could still manage to pick out her diminutive form inching up the last rise before the drive. Alistair sped to her side. He must have startled her for she gasped when he suddenly loomed in front of her. "Are you hurt? What happened? Did you fall off your mount?"

She shook her head, but as the rest of her body was already shaking, it didn't have much effect. "I walked. And that's," she looked behind her, "a very big hill. It didn't look so steep when I rode here before."

"What do you mean, you _walked?_ Where's Charlie? Didn't he just come by?"

"I heard a horse approaching and didn't know if it might be the Millhouses, so I hid behind a tree. He never saw me. _Alistair._"

She took a couple steps toward him, then started to go down. It was then he noticed her limp and her bloody shoes. He swore under his breath and caught her up in his arms, wrapping his greatcoat about them both. "My God, you're injured, soaked to the bone, and half frozen."

Her teeth chattered but she sighed at the contact. "Yes, well, it w-wasn't raining when I started."

"How many hours ago was that? Let me get you to the house and warm you up."

She started to protest. "Wait! No. They could be on their way here."

"Who?"

"M-Mr. Billings, Royce Darrington, and my father. I'm not sure who else. But they suspect you of the murders. Alistair, I came to warn you. You and Charlie must leave here at once!"

"Billings has already been here. He didn't say I was a suspect. He's just doing his job." Billings had asked half a dozen probing questions he didn't have good answers to, but he didn't think they were anything but bunny trails. Why had he left his practice? Why had he come to Bridgewood? And what had he been doing on the road the night of the incident involving the Reynolds' coach?

"There was another murder last night. They suspect you but don't have enough evidence yet, I don't think. But I believe something Jonathan Marley said to them has given them cause to believe you might be the one responsible."

Alistair clenched down on his jaw. So she _had _seen him—Georgie. It didn't matter. "They can't convict a man without evidence, sweetheart, and I've done nothing wrong."

"Of course not, but you _did _kill those thieves. What if they connect those actions to those of the killer? They'll think you're one and the same person!"

Thank God she knew he wasn't or he wouldn't be able to bear the look of fear in her eyes. "I can't run, sweetheart. It would make me look guilty."

"But what if—"

"Shhh. What if's are only that. Let me get you warmed up, then I'll take you home. I appreciate your coming all this way—why is it you didn't ride your horse?—but I can deal with Billings and the others if they come."

"My f-father grounded me and thought to imprison me at the house by refusing me a mount. How little he knows me. I snuck out."

"He _grounded _you?" He chuckled again. Sounded like something one did to a recalcitrant child. "What did you do this time? Burn the soup?"

"I defied him."

_Defied._ That was a rather strong term. He waited for an explanation.

"He said I'm to marry Caleb Darrington by the last Saturday of the month. And he didn't ask; he dictated."

He stopped and looked down at her. "_What?_ That's less than a fortnight away."

"I know! I'm sure it's Royce's doing. He has something on my father, I'm certain of it. But I don't know what. He's been buying up land in the area, recently, literally bullying people out of their property, making claims of prior ownership—all kinds of underhanded things. That's why my father had gone to court recently—to defend a friend of his. I can only think he's doing the same, now, to us."

"But how does Caleb fit into all of this?"

She shrugged. "We were betrothed at one time. I cut it off. It embarrassed the family. Perhaps it's just his way of getting back at me."

Alistair simmered. A petty reaction. That anyone would use her as a pawn was cruel and detestable, but that her father allowed it was even more appalling, and what angered him most. Regarding Caleb, it appeared the son took his cues from his father. But Rebecca married? _Over his cold, dead body_. She was _his_.

He carried her into the house and up to the bedroom Isabella had used while recuperating. Some of his medical supplies were still at hand. Setting her on the edge of the bed, he quickly set about getting the fire to a roaring blaze. "It will be warm in here in no time."

That done, he returned to her and pulled up a stool. Then, with great care, he reached for her leg. Moving a hand just beneath the hem of her skirt, he slid it slowly up the smooth, slim line of her leg. At the touch, the firm muscle of her calf flexed beneath his fingers. The contact was electrifying. She sucked in a breath and Alistair looked up to find her luminous eyes fixed on his.

He swallowed. "Does that hurt?"

"Not . . . exactly. Please continue."

He smiled to himself. _Oh, he intended to_. He lifted the injured foot into his lap. "How did you twist your ankle? Did you stumble?"

"I fell out of a tree."

He glanced up.

"It was a teensy bit farther to the ground than I expected."

He chuckled and carefully turned it this way and that. "Probably not the best idea in the dead of night. I don't think it's broken, just bruised."

Next, he removed her torn and muddy slippers and grimaced—a completely inadequate foot covering for such a journey. With a damp cloth he cleaned away the blood and dirt from her toes, then probed the ball of her foot with his thumb in a way that made her heart rate increase. His did the same. "Okay?" he murmured, watching the play of firelight in her expressive eyes.

"Oh, yes!"

He needed to stop tempting fate. She was like putty in his hands. Lowering the mantle of physician over himself, he tamped down his urge to probe the rest of her beautiful legs and concentrated on her poor, wounded feet. Finally, he wrapped the injured ankle and cleaned the other foot. By the time he was done, Rebecca had a rosy glow to her cheeks. "Feeling warmer now?"

"Absolutely," she said with feeling.

He reluctantly set her foot back down. "I haven't hurt you, have I?" he murmured. Not yet, anyway, he hoped. But that could come later.

She shook her head. "You have a remarkably good bed-side manner, Doctor MacGregor."

"Only for you." He eyed the gem tucked provocatively low in the dip of her bust line and felt his own gut clench. He licked his lips. The accompanying flood of adrenalin, though, didn't come. While he wondered at that, he thanked the heavens. Being in total control right now was absolutely imperative.

Seeing the smudge on her cheek, he took another damp rag to wipe it off, but she winced when he touched her. Comprehension made his eyebrows suddenly converge into a deep furrow. "Who _hit _you?"

She drew in a sharp breath and put a hand to the bruise.

"If it was Darrington, I'll kill him."

"No! No, it wasn't him. I told you, I defied my father."

He searched her face, but she was telling the truth. "From the way you've spoken of him, your father doesn't strike me as a man who would lift a hand to any female, much less one of his daughters—" _And yet he'd locked her up and demanded she marry an ass, he reminded himself._

"He's not. He's not. As I said, there's something underneath all of this—something sinister. There must be. I just have to find out what it is before—"

"—before next Saturday night." He scowled. "I will speak to him, Rebecca. I'll get to the bottom of this." He stood.

She grabbed his arm and pulled him back down. "No! I mean, don't go. Please. I didn't come to make more trouble for you."

He studied her face. "Why _did _you come?"

She ducked her head. "I told you, to warn you . . . and . . ."

"And?"

She looked up into his eyes and he got the strongest feeling of déjà vu. They had been at this place before, perhaps a thousand times, and would again.

"And . . . if I'm going to have to marry Caleb, then I wanted to know, just one time, what it felt like to truly be cherished—"

Alistair surged to his feet again and loomed over her, astonished. Did she even know what she was saying?

"Make love to me, Alistair."

_Oh, God._ He lost his ability to think, much less breathe, and then his chest became a bellows. "You don't know what you're asking."

Pushing to her feet, as well, placed her face inches away from his. "I do." She put a hand on his chest. "Please don't deny me this one thing. If—if I can have you, just for one night, I think I could survive—"

"Even if I-I wanted to—and believe me, I do," he swallowed thickly, "it's too dangerous! You know what I'm capable of. It's why I've tried everything in my power to push you away. I haven't been with a woman since . . . since . . ."

"I know. But you've held me, touched me, kissed me, Alistair. And never once hurt me. And you won't. I trust you. I'm not asking for forever—just one night. Come the morning, I'll sneak back home and into my room again. We'd be the only ones to know."

Lightning crackled outside, illuminating the room and punctuating the sharp staccato of his own erratic heart rhythm. He tore off his jacket and was on her in a second, pushing her back down against the counter pane and sliding a long-fingered hand up the length of her torso.

Rebecca gasped then placed a hand against his chest. "Wait! Not here. If someone notices I'm missing—"

His eyes were nearly crossed with desire but he was able to follow her train of thought. "—this is the first place they'll look."

"Yes. Is there . . . ?"

"I know of a place." He picked her up. "It isn't very far."

* * *

They rode Chameleon through the woods. The rain had stopped, but how Alistair and his great horse could make out the path in the blackness, she couldn't fathom. She'd been frightened out of her wits on the walk up the hill in the dark, and that was with the distant lights of the town still in view.

Traversing a meadow, they came to a stop before a small cottage tucked just inside the heavy wood. "I came across this cabin on the property just last week. It's pretty well hidden. If they come to the house, they'll find no one home and assume we're out for the night. With the denseness of the woods, they won't see the lights." Not that they were going to use anything more than a candle or two.

He lifted her down and led her inside by the hand. It smelled a little musty from being closed up, but was otherwise clean and neat. The single room dwelling was sparsely but adequately furnished with chairs, several small tables, and a partition separating the kitchen from the rest of the space. A large double-sized bed prominently rounded out the room.

"Might have been a fishing cabin at one time," he said. "There's a lake nearby. But it seems a bit too well appointed for that."

She nodded. "Perhaps just a lovely retreat?"

"Perhaps." As it would be theirs. He set her down on the bed—the main object in the room—and found the strength to try one last time. "_Rebecca . . ._"

She gripped his shirt to hold him close. "I love you, Alistair MacGregor. I don't know how or when it happened, but it's real and all I want is to be with you, to talk to you, to know you. So love me back. Please, please love me . . ."

Alistair stared. Love? It seemed too inadequate a word. Truly. And one he'd never thought to hear again. "Are you real?"

"Yes, I'm real and I'm here with you. If you back out now, you know, I'll just have to walk into town and find the first taker."

That shook him out of his reverie. An arm beneath her to soften the impact, he pushed her swiftly down onto the bed. "I don't think so," he murmured, then followed the neckline of her dress with his lips. His heart rate still escalating with hers, he started to smooth the silky cap sleeve off of one shoulder when he stopped and checked his hands. They were slightly shaking, but his nail beds remained normal—no tingling rush that usually preceded the razor sharp nails that painfully erupted during his transformations. Nothing. Amazed, he laughed. Then he pressed his face into her fragrant skin and groaned.

Rebecca's voice seemed to come from far away. "Oh, good. I was rather hoping you'd say that . . ."

* * *

Sometime later it was she who was doing the groaning. And the weeping. She'd never known such feelings in her life. They overwhelmed. At the peak of their encounter, she wanted to sob. For one frantic moment he'd stilled. Then, his head bent to hers, he whispered the thousand ways he loved her, too. Then he proved it.

When it was over, he was extremely solicitous, but she couldn't even speak. She had to wipe her eyes several times and ask him to give her a minute before she could even look at him. Nothing and no one had ever prepared her for _that_.

Now, as she dozed lightly, Alistair lay upon the bed lost in his own deep thoughts, still breathing hard. It had taken him a while to come down—sweet, blessed minutes—as the miracle replayed in his head. He hadn't transformed. Not at all. It was like she had some mystical control over him. He looked over at her sleeping form. The dark green gem twinkled in the candlelight from between her small but perfect breasts. It was all she wore. He hadn't wanted to remove it. In some ethereal way, the necklace linked her to him and named her as his own.

She'd stunned him—not only with her strength, her passion, and enthusiasm, but with . . . her innocence—the last most surprising of all. Rebecca had earlier all but told him she was no longer a virgin, and yet she was. Correction: she _had _been. No longer. Whatever had prompted her to make that claim, he didn't know, but he wished he'd had a little more warning.

He looked over at her in concern. There had been one moment in which she'd uttered a small cry of pain, but then came such overwhelming ecstasy, he'd nearly forgotten it. Then he remembered her tears afterward.

He curled toward her, unwilling and unable to keep from touching her, and brushed a hand across her unbruised cheek. She opened her eyes and smiled.

"Did I hurt you?"

"Define 'hurt.'"

Thank God! He relaxed. The Rebecca he knew was still there.

She stretched, cat like, and he felt a rush of blood in his veins.

"If there was one word I would use to describe what you just did to me, it wouldn't be that."

Satisfaction filled his lungs. As much as he wanted to know what word she _would _use, he studied her somberly. "If I'd known it was your first time, you know, there are things I could have done to make it easier."

The gentle reprimand wasn't lost on Rebecca. She reddened and ducked her chin. "I didn't realize . . ."

He could see her flush, even in the low light. It made desire spike through him again. "So . . . Caleb never did to you what I just did?"

She shook her head, burning deeper.

"Good. I may let him live." He tucked a lock of hair behind her ear. "But someone . . . touched you in the past and you assumed . . . ?"

She twisted her lips at him. "My mother left us before I was of an age to ask such questions, and my poor aunt . . . You must think me terribly silly to not know such a thing—"

"I think you're incredibly special I'm incredibly blessed." He propped his head on an elbow and leaned over her. "You gave me a gift tonight that I will treasure the rest of my life. You're my miracle." He pulled her hand to his mouth and kissed each finger. She curled them around his.

"Your gift to me was even greater. Now I can go on—"

"Uh, no."

She looked at him.

"You're not going back to him. Ever."

"But—"

He sat up a little straighter. "Rebecca, I don't care if you did this to cuckold Darrington or not. The plan has changed. Now you're mine, and I'm never letting you go." He brushed fine strands of damp hair away from her face. "It won't hurt like that the next time, I promise."

"There'll be a next time?"

Her shy but enthusiastic question stopped his breath. "God, yes. Just give me a minute."

A minute was more than he needed.

* * *

Sometime in the night, Alistair noticed the wire-wrapped stone had made tiny red marks on her skin. He tossed it aside. It skittered across the floor and ended up in the far corner of the room. After that, things heated up. The third time they made love, it was anything but calm.

Rebecca noticed the change in him but thought it must be the natural progression of things. His rise in intensity only fueled her own, and she gloried in it. When things escalated even more, she couldn't help herself: she groaned in satisfaction. He echoed that with a guttural growl. And then his eyes began to glow with a golden light. Rebecca stared. There was a moment's confusion, then she realized what was happening. As his hands dug into the bedding on either side of her, she heard the rip of fabric. Seeing the rising panic in his eyes, she quickly placed her hands on either side of his face and forced his eyes to hers. And breathed.

They stayed in that moment until her own ecstasy caused her eyes to close and her entire body to arch. Then he made a sound she could only wonder where it came from. It the most exhilarating moment she'd ever experienced.

The wind buffeting the cottage was the only sound for several minutes. He collapsed to the side of her, panting. She waited until his breathing slowed, then carefully turned her head. He had one arm slung across his eyes, which were tightly shut, and his expression grim.

"Alistair," she whispered.

"I nearly lost control, dammit," he said without turning. "I could have hurt you. I told you this was _dangerous_."

She put a hand to his arm but he shrugged away from it.

"_Alistair._"

He shook his head.

"But you didn't. You didn't hurt me."

He opened his eyes, now a deep mellow brown and, and then he opened his hand. A piece of shredded bedding was still in his grip. She looked at the quilting on either side of her. Claw marks almost a foot long were etched into the fabric.

He turned away in shame. "I don't know what happened. Things were fine; I was in control. And then I wasn't."

She pushed herself up on one elbow. "Don't turn what just happened into something ugly. You didn't lose control. You may have wanted to, but you _didn't_. And that was the most . . . amazing thing I have ever experienced."

"And it will be the last."

"Please don't say that, Alistair. Please."

He sat up and rubbed his face. A soft white glow in the room said that dawn was just beginning to break. Her eyes, adjusted now to the low light, scanned the length of his powerful body—a sight to behold all in itself—and she felt a flush begin again.

Unfortunately, that vision disappeared all too soon. He got up, pulled on his clothes and started rooting about the room fiddling with the fire and whatnot.

"I'll make you a bath, then we need to get you home . . . and quickly."

And that's when the magic ended.


	12. Chapter 12

**Chapter 12**

High atop Chameleon, they headed through the woods in silence but for the crunch of leaves and twigs beneath the great horse's hooves. The autumn sun, its weak light slow to chase away the darkness, did nothing to ease the chill in the air. That suited Rebecca's mood just fine. Even the heat radiating from Alistair's body could not diminish the cold she felt at thinking they may never share a night like that again.

He'd said little since their last encounter, the shame he felt at partially transforming still casting a heavy shadow over the few precious minutes they had left together. As much as she understood his fear, Rebecca's confidence in him had never wavered. Trying to convince Alistair of it, however, proved to be another thing entirely.

He'd held her a long time afterward. But when they'd finally concluded they couldn't will the dawn away, Alistair had warmed the tub of tepid water with a bucket he'd heated over the fire, then carried her there and gently set her down into it. That it felt so natural to be completely unclothed before him still amazed, but it wasn't until he'd placed her in the water that she realized just how tender her body had become as a result of his loving and sometimes frenetic ministrations throughout the night. She felt a twinge in her belly and then the heat of another blush at the thought of some of those moments: nose to nose, mouth to mouth, belly to belly; his sometimes soft/sometimes bristly facial hair tickling her neck, her ankle, the underside of her knee and doing crazy tingly things to her innards. And then there was that wicked, wicked tongue. She coughed. Her memories were so fresh and vibrant, she still tingled. She wondered, not for the first time, just when that ticklish reaction would cease and she would feel 'normal' again. If what she felt showed on her face at all, heaven only knew what Isabella or her father would make of it!

Now, as they picked their way carefully through the trees toward the road, she felt the first twinges of doubt. How would this work out? Could she convince her father to accept him as her suitor? Would they be able to thwart Royce's schemes, whatever they were? Would Alistair, himself, come to accept the fact that he had no choice in the matter—that he was hers and she was never giving him up?

During the night she'd remembered their first encounter in the study and how he'd thought she was the mysterious Georgie in his inebriated state. Now she recalled his words: _"I can't give you what you need. I've done everything I can to warn you away—why won't you listen?"_

She frowned and asked the question that brought up. "Alistair, how did you know we had houseguests?"

"What?"

"The night I invited you to dinner. When I came to Bridgewood in the morning you asked if our houseguests had left, but I'd never told you we had other guests. How did you know?"

"Ah."

"There'd better be more than 'ah.'"

There was a long silence, then he sighed. "I had every intention of coming that night. Charlie will vouch for me—I had to have him help me tie my cravat."

"You implied you hadn't come because he'd gotten injured."

He sat up straighter. "That, uh, actually happened after I returned home."

"I see. So you saw Georgiana Marley and recognized her, didn't you?"

"Yes. Rebecca—"

"She was your fiancée?"

"A long time ago. Rebecca—"

"Just answer one question, and I won't ask anything more."

He waited for the inevitable question to come: What had he done to her? What she actually asked surprised him.

"Will your feelings for her come between us?"

He turned her around. "What?"

"You were once engaged to be married. What is she to you now?"

He pressed her head against his chest. "What I felt and continue to feel for Georgie," his deep voice rumbled against her temple, "is so far removed from what I feel for you, there isn't any way to compare. What I feel for her now is more pity than anything else. And guilt."

That soothed her spirit, but only a little. "How did you meet?" As soon as she asked it, she realized that was another question. She pressed her lips together and hoped he didn't notice.

"Dr. Bridgewood actually introduced us. I'd mentioned how much I enjoyed music and he took me to one of her recitals. It was when things were good between he and I. After two such concerts, she and I began seeing each other and eventually, as you said, became engaged. It was shortly before I became ill. After Bridgewood "cured" me and I realized what I had become, I knew I couldn't go on with our plans—it would have been unfair to her. I pretended the illness had affected me to such a degree that it was necessary for me to break things off. You have to understand - Georgie wasn't strong like you. She was fragile. She existed on a plane where few mortals did – somewhere between the earth and heaven. She lived for her music and could go days barely eating, she practiced so much. I initially appealed to her because, at the time we met, I was very stable, down-to-earth, and completely independent. I had no close family, and didn't require much in the way of a wife and companion." He looked down at her. "I would demand very little from her—that's what she wanted. It was perhaps why it was so difficult for her to accept my rejection."

"Then you never. . . physically hurt her?"

"Is that what you thought?"

"I didn't know."

He looked forward again, into the middle distance of memory. "Heartache can be physically painful," he said, almost to himself. "But no. I hurt her in a different way, but at the time I felt I had no choice. And I had no idea how devastated she would become. Very fragile. At first, she went into a depression, then she became slightly irrational. She came to visit me—twice—at the clinic. She just wouldn't take no for an answer. In the end, I did what I had to."

"What was that? If you don't mind me asking?"

He kissed her. "I will tell you anything you want. I won't lie to you, ever." He prodded Chameleon forward again. "The last time she came to me, she caught me off guard. Essentially, she threw herself at me. It made me fear for us both."

_As he feared, now, for her._

"Before things got out of hand," he continued, "I did the only thing I could think of—I gave into my fear."

"And transformed?"

"Partially," he added, at her look of surprise.

"Then she _knows?_"

"No. I frightened her; that's all. My eyes changed and I growled. If you asked her today, she'll tell you she saw a demon."

"How do you know that?"

"I watched over her for a while. From afar. I checked in. I needed to know she was all right. I knew I'd hurt her, emotionally, but it was the price that had to be paid for her safety. Her brother took good care of her. After I saw that, I figured time and distance would help her heal the rest of the way. I left the city." He looked down at her. "She can't see me, Rebecca. She may have recovered for the most part, but it would be better for us not to cross paths, especially now. It would set her back. And she still feels angry. I heard it in her playing when I came to the house. Yes, I heard the piano forte and realized it was her. I left because I had to. I didn't know how to tell you."

"No. It's all right. I understand." Even so, Rebecca frowned. With her sister so interested in Jonathan, that didn't bode well for her and Alistair to be together.

"Once she gets past her anger, I believe she'll be able to love again and lead a more normal life."

Whatever 'normal' was. Rebecca no longer knew. "Do you ever wonder," she asked, "if, given time, she could have come to accept you? She loved you, Alistair. Enough to accept your hand in marriage. Love covers many things."

He kissed her head and answered decisively. "No. It would never have happened. Georgiana is my past, Rebecca. You are my present."

_But was she his future?_

As Alistair guided the horse, he had one hand on the reins and held her tight around the middle with his other, a thumb resting just beneath her breast. She curled a hand over his long, gloveless fingers, willing him to read her mind: _I love you. I want you. I understand and accept you—just the way you are._ Could he feel the heavy thudding of her heart? "This isn't the end for us, either, Alistair. You can't scare me away like you did to her."

"No."

Her eyes shot to his.

"That surprises you?"

"Y-yes. Because you said—"

"I may be an animal, but I'm a gentleman, too. I took your virginity. If you think I'm just going to abandon you after—"

"Stop."

"What?"

"Stop the horse. Now."

He immediately obeyed. Rebecca twisted around to face him. Purposefully placing hands on either side of his face just as she had at his most vulnerable moment, she spoke low and fervently. "Alistair MacGregor, you are not an _animal_, and I don't ever want to hear that from your mouth again, do you understand me?"

He blinked. "Yes, ma'am," he said automatically, as if he were a child addressing a schoolmarm.

"We are going to proceed with this plan,"—the plan they devised in the early morning as he lovingly washed and redressed her—"not because you are _obligated _to me out of some misguided code of conduct, but because," her eyes filled, "you are my soul mate. The other half of me. The one whom my heart loves."

He bit his lower lip and she could see the slight tremble there—he was afraid to believe.

"We made it through last night. We'll find a way to beat this thing or live with it. _Either way_, I'm not giving you—or what I experienced last night—up. Ever."

He leaned his forehead against hers. "I feel the same way," he whispered, "but . . . I couldn't live with myself if I hurt you. Can you understand that?"

"You won't. You won't. And I'm not fragile. We'll find a way . . . together. Promise me you'll try? Please?"

She could see the concern warring with desire in his eyes—because he was an honorable man. It made her love and trust him even more.

Finally, he nodded. "Yes. We'll find a way." He opened his mouth and caught her top lip with his, then sought her tongue. She sighed when the kiss ended too soon and he turned her around, nudging Chameleon forward again.

As they got to the edge of the wood before her property, she stopped him once more. "I'll get off here and walk the rest of the way."

"But what about your ankle?"

She looked down and wiggled it. "It's much stronger, now, with the wrap you put on it. Besides, it isn't far. If I'm seen, best someone thinks I've only been out for an early morning walk. Let's stick to the plan."

The 'plan' had been nothing more than their decision to sneak her back home and let it appear she was going ahead with the wedding plans in order to buy some time while he regrouped to approach her father and present his case.

While still in the cover of darkness in the trees, he halted, jumped down, and lifted her to the ground. Once there, his mouth sought hers again and then his hands. He released her with a frustrated laugh, smoothing her pretty dark locks back into place. "I can't seem to let go of you, madam."

"I'd apologize, but the feeling's quite mutual, sir, I assure you."

"Hurry and go. Step out into the open, quickly, before I drag you back to that cottage and have my wicked way with you again."

She smiled. "If that's your way of encouraging me to leave, it isn't working."

"In the words of William Shakespeare, 'Parting is such sweet sorrow.'"

"Yes, it is. And it's already 'the morrow.'" Her fingers tangled with his and then slowly released them.

"Indeed."

As further incentive, he swatted her backside in a playful move.

"Okay!" She yelped. Then she took a breath. "I can do this." She reached up and planted one more kiss on his dimple, then turned around and put on her most innocent face. And walked toward the house.

Rebecca made it almost to the landing before the crunch of boots behind her made her suck in a breath. Thinking it was Alistair, she turned with a smile. Then frowned.

"Caleb. What are you doing here?"

He cocked his head at her. "I could ask you the same question."

"This is _my _house!"

"As we're soon to be . . . one . . . in every sense of the word, I suggest you start thinking of it as mine, as well. And it's rather early in the morning for a walk."

"Not too early for _you _to be up and about, as well."

"My father stopped by to talk with yours. I came along for the ride."

It made sense, then, that he would be lurking outside. No matter that his father was trying to groom him to follow in his footsteps as the local law enforcer, she knew from experience that Caleb found 'business' dealings endlessly tedious.

"I saw you come from the woods," he said. "Where have you been?"

"Have you been following me?"

He looked her up and down, then sniffed. "No. But perhaps someone should. Been meeting with your lover?"

Unable to stop herself, she blushed crimson and looked toward the forest edge. Alistair was no longer there, but might still be within hearing distance, spelling danger for them both. Realizing her mistake could give him away, she turned back at Caleb and tried to feign outrage.

"That's insulting, even for you."

"Is it?" He shrugged. "There's a smell of wood smoke in your hair. And you look . . . different."

Different, how? She ran a self-conscious hand over her hair which she'd pinned hastily back atop her head in her rush to leave. She hadn't had time to wash, much less dry it. And as the hearth in the cabin had been so infrequently used, it wasn't in the best shape. She suddenly wondered if any of her clothing was out of place but was afraid to look down and check her appearance. "W-what do you mean?"

He studied her face. "If I didn't know you better I'd say you look . . . well kissed." He suddenly smiled. "If this is the way you look every morning, damme—I think I could get used to that real quick! Much better than that scornful look you usually wear."

Rebecca pulled her shawl tighter and covered her lips with her fingers. They _were _a tad on the tender side. Was it possible to tell a person had been thoroughly kissed just from looking at them? She didn't know, but now was not the time to try to figure it out. She put that scornful look right back in place. "Now, listen here, Caleb Darrington. I didn't willingly agree to this marriage, so don't expect me to be happy about it. I'm not sure what you or your father have on mine, but I'm going to get to the bottom of things. There won't be any wedding if I have anything to say about it!"

All right, that was not in the 'plan,' but he made her so angry!

"Oh, you mean that little _indiscretion _he made on a case a few years back? Yeah, if I were you, I wouldn't bring that up."

"Wh—indiscretion! How dare you. You're lying. My father is the most honest, up-right barrister in the county. He is esteemed by his colleagues in the court as having the highest of principles! To accuse him of an 'indiscretion' with regard to the law is ridiculous!"

"And yet—unfortunately—painfully true. Something that could cost him his license, if I understand it right. Now you really wouldn't want to go digging around in all of that, would you, sweetheart? Might get a bit sticky—for you and your sister, as well."

"My _sister?_" What on earth would Isabella have to do with any of this? She simmered. "And don't 'sweetheart' me, you lout." Rebecca sounded strong, but her mind was whirling. So there _was _something they were holding over her father. But until she knew exactly what, there wasn't anything she could do.

She sighed. Perhaps threatening Caleb had not been the wisest move. She switched tactics to appeal to his baser and only slightly more reasonable side—his ego.

"Caleb," she said, putting a hand to his arm. "Think about this. We've known each other for a long time, you and I. You know my temper, how I can be. Why would you want to go through with this marriage knowing my feelings? We aren't meant to be together. We'll just make each other miserable. And hurting my father is certainly not the way to my heart!"

"Heart? Are you a child? You still believe marriage is about love and feelings?"

"They certainly don't hurt!"

"Grow up. Half the marriages for our class are about power and position, wealth, social standing . . . protecting what we love and value."

_Love? _That certainly wasn't it. _Power, wealth and position?_—definitely not. He had nothing to gain from her there. That only left _value_. What value was she to him? She frowned.

"You may not have feelings for me now," he said, "but those will come. And even if they don't, it matters little. I would still make it good for you. You just need to give us a chance."

In her limited world view and what she now knew about love and how 'good' it could really be, she rather doubted it. "There is no 'us,' Caleb. And there never will be. Not if I can help it."

He shrugged. "So be it. Nothing changes. This is what my father wants, anyway; not me."

Ha! "And do you always do what your father says?"

"No. But there's more at stake here than you realize."

She started to ask him what he meant by that when the front door swung open and Royce stepped out, her father close behind him. "Caleb!" Royce shouted.

"Yes, sir?"

"Get your gun."

"_What?_" Rebecca ran up to them. "Why? Papa, what's happened?"

"Get inside, daughter. This is men's business."

Royce cocked his rifle into place with a threatening snap. "That's right. And we're going to catch us a killer."

"And best you stay inside," her father directed. "Royce just informed me another young woman was killed in the area just last night. Combined with the information Jonathan and Georgiana Marley supplied, that MacGregor fellow is the one who did it."

"What?! _No! _Last night?"

"Keep all your women-folk inside for the time being," Royce said to him, sprinting down the steps. "We'll get Billings, then head over to my place for some reinforcements before returning. Then we'll all go together."

The older men headed to the stable, still talking. When Caleb started to do likewise, Rebecca stopped him with a hand to his arm. "Caleb, wait."

He turned to her. "You heard them. He's been right here in our midst all along! There's no time to waste."

"But Alistair isn't the killer!"

He looked at her. "_Alistair,_ is it, now?" He laughed. "You may not want to believe this, honey, but the 'good doctor' was in the vicinity of all the other murders. That makes him the prime suspect."

"But so was I! And so were you! How is that any different?"

"Well, for one thing, I know you, and you know me—_that's_ how it's different. This MacGregor character is a stranger to the area." He put a hand on her head as if she was a child. "I know you always think the best of people, Becks—it's your way. But believe it or not, the most normal looking fellow can be a monster on the inside. Thank God you weren't a victim, yourself. We've been keeping an eye on him for a while. Now, with what his housekeeper told us—"

"Mrs. Millhouse?"

"How would I know her name? She's just a servant. All I know is she gave Billings an earful in town the other night. Said MacGregor's a real creeper. With everything else, he's suspicious enough to warrant going after."

"But he isn't the killer. And I can prove it!"

"What do you mean, 'prove it'? How could you possibly—? Wait." He looked her over again, this time more critically. "That's no day dress. Just where were you coming from this morning? Who were you with?"

When she didn't reply, his lips parted in surprise. He looked at her dress again—the green one he'd seen once before—and at the hand she placed on her stomach. Then he looked back at her face.

She saw the dawning realization in his eyes. He _knew_. Rebecca grabbed his arm again. It was too late to worry about the ramifications of all of that now. "That's right. So now you know. I am his alibi, Caleb. Now do you really want a wife who doesn't want you?" _And possibly a babe that's not your own?_

He swore viciously then shook his head. "Doesn't matter."

_It doesn't?_ "Alistair _couldn't _have killed that woman, Caleb," she said urgently. "That means the real killer is still out there. You have to stop this, now; do you hear me? For once, do the right thing!"

"Just shut your mouth, dammit!" He backhanded her. As it was the same cheek her father had hit the day before, she cried out in pain. And shock. When she looked back, he was watching her. Rebecca braced herself and reached for his arm once again. "Please?"

He shoved her away—this time less violently, but it was still a rejection. He took a step back, still stunned. "And if I do?"

Her breath caught. It was Alistair's life they were talking about. If they went after him and he became angry . . . . "Then . . . I'll marry you."

* * *

Alistair went directly back to the cabin from the Reynolds'. While he'd intended to quickly put it to rights and return to Bridgewood, as he stood in the center of the single room dwelling, he was overcome with memories of their night together. The images, the smells, the sounds of her sensual cries—they were all still there as visceral and real as if it were happening all over again. He gasped and looked around. There was nothing physical to explain it, really, other than his memories . . . and the torn bedding. The wave of emotion at the sight of that almost knocked him over.

Ignoring the massive assault on his senses by literally grinding his teeth, he stripped the feather tick from the bed and tossed it and the linens into a fire pit outside. He dumped the water from the tub, dispersed the coals in the hearth and set everything back in its place. He was about to leave when he spotted it—the green stone. Still attached to its wire chain, it had rolled beneath the tallboy and was so well hidden he'd nearly missed it. He grabbed it up and as he did so the image assault finally eased. Thankful for that, he breathed a sigh of relief and stuffed the gem into his pocket. He would return it to her when he went to see her father.

He closed up the building and headed home.

Charlie met him at a run. Alistair had just approached the manor when the younger man burst through the door with a shout. "Come quick! He's bleedin' awful bad!"

Alistair looped Chameleon's reins over the stair post and followed him into the house. "Who? What happened?"

Charlie led him into the small dining room. Daniel Millhouse lay stretched across the table, moaning in pain. Red stains marred the tablecloth and carpet beneath him.

"I tried to stop the bleedin' by doin' whatcha taught me, but it ain't workin'," Charlie said.

Alistair examined the rusty iron contraption piercing Mr. Millhouse's leg in three places while Charlie kept up his nervous dialog.

"We was digging around that plot agin trying to get out a big rock when the dern fool stepped to the side and sprung this trap. Must'a been buried open like that. A bit strange if ye be askin' me. I got some innerestin' items out of the hole for ya, though, by the by."

No certain how lucid Daniel was, Alistair only grunted at that and dispatched Charlie for supplies while he tended the wound. An hour later they sent the injured man back to town with his wife in the cart.

"He's going to need a while to recuperate. And he'll need her help."

"Guess that means I'll be cooking the dinners again," Charlie said forlornly.

Alistair, weary from a night without sleep, a raging headache, and the stress of treating the injury plopped down into the stuffed chair by the hearth in the study. "Don't worry. I'll help." He looked over at Charlie, who was fixing himself a drink and muttering about 'some help' and grinned. "What about the other items you found?"

"Ah. Got 'em in the back room. Thought it best Daniel didn't git too good a look." He left the room and returned a minute later. "Here." He handed Alistair a large iron collar. "Seems a might big fer them dogs."

Alistair examined it. Indeed, unless it had been made for a bear, as the trap would suggest, it was too big for any ordinary dog, much less the type Dr. Bridgewood had kept.

"Then there was these bones. They be all piled up in a neat way. I think I got 'em all." He handed him the thick canvas sack and swallowed. "I ain't no expert, but that jawbone don't look like any dog I ever seen."

Alistair took one look and set them aside. "Hard to say what they are, or how many. I'll take a closer look in a bit. Is that it?"

"One more thing. At the bottom of it all, I found this oil-skinned package. Twas a bit afraid to open it at first, but it seemed solid. It's a book of some sort. Looks like more of Doc Bridgewood's notes." He handed it to Alistair. "Can't think why he'd bury it, though."

Alistair's eyes lit up and he eagerly took it from him. "Hmm. Well then, let's find out."

An hour later he was wide awake and deep in study. When Charlie brought in a tray of food, he didn't even look up.

"Whadda ye make of it?"

"If I understand this correctly, Charlie, this may be the key we've been looking for."

"A cure? Gor!"

"No. Not a cure. But a start. The bones must belong to the animal he calls 'the beast' in these pages. I'm still fuzzy on its origin, but it would appear Bridgewood's experiments surrounded this animal. He was obsessed with its strength, agility, keen intellect and ability to heal rapidly. I think he was trying to harness those properties by introducing them into other animals first, then humans."

Charlie frowned. "Well, I guess it couldn't cure itself completely since all there is left is bones."

"Animals don't have the lifespan of humans. It may well have died of old age. I won't be able to tell until I do an autopsy. But there's more. He mentions the collar," Alistair lifted it up, "and the green gem."

"The stone we found in the box?"

"Yes. Seems it had some sort of calming properties on the beast. See this oval indentation?"

Charlie's eyes popped. "The same size . . ."

"—and shape of the stone, yes. As long as the animal wore the collar with the gem, Bridgewood could control it."

He pulled it out of his pocket. It all made sense now. When Rebecca had been wearing the necklace, he'd been in control. It wasn't until he'd accidentally knocked it across the room that he'd been affected by the rush of adrenalin.

"Then, then . . . it be a cure of sorts," Charlie offered, a hopeful look on his face.

"Maybe. Of a sort." And also a tool that could be used against him. Or to protect someone from him. He suddenly stood. _Rebecca!_ There was still a beast out there. If she had the stone, it could protect her. "I have to go." He stood.

"But where? Ye just got back. Ye've hardly eaten and ye haven't slept a wink!"

"No time!" Alistair quickly washed his face in the basin. He'd wanted more time before having to confront her father, but if anything happened to her while he waited, he couldn't forgive himself. He put the necklace back in his pocket. If she hadn't gone to bed, he had to find a way to see her for a few minutes alone.

* * *

It wasn't to be.

Rebecca, her father on one side of the room and her sister on the other, paced the front salon restlessly. "Why haven't they returned?" she asked the room in general.

Her father looked up. "They went to get Billings first. Perhaps they had trouble finding him."

"Papa, you have to do something! You have to stop them. Royce Darrington is out of control. You can't convict a man without evidence—you taught me that."

"There's circumstantial evidence, daughter. That's a start."

"But not enough!" She went down on her knees before him. "Please, Papa. Listen to me. I _know _Alistair MacGregor. He is a good man. He did not kill those people."

"The court will decide. Let them bring him in for questioning. It's the right thing to do."

Frustrated, she left the room and ran out the front door. She needed air. As soon as she did, she saw him. Sitting proud and tall upon Chameleon, he looked like an archangel come to claim her. She ran to him as he dismounted.

"Alistair!"

He had to stop her before she flew into his arms. "So good to see you again, Miss Reynolds," he said loudly, reminding her where they were—in full view of the house.

"Oh! Why, yes, indeed, Mr. MacGregor." She curtseyed. "I'm so glad you came. You see—"

"Rebecca, take this," he said urgently, spying movement inside the house. They didn't have much time.

"Oh, the necklace! How nice of you—"

"You must keep it on you at all times. I just learned it has special properties that will protect—"

"Ho there!"

Billings and Royce rode up from behind. "Now, everyone remain calm and very still. Miss Reynolds, please take a step back. I wouldn't want to catch you in my sights," Royce said dangerously, training his rifle on Alistair.

"What is this?" Alistair asked.

"It—it seems—" Rebecca stammered.

"Hands in the air!"

"Rebecca. To my side. Now!" Eldon Reynolds joined them at the base of the steps. He didn't wait for her to obey—he pulled her forcefully behind him. "Now, gentlemen, there's no reason to be hasty. We must do this by the book. You're wanted for questioning, young man," he addressed Alistair. "I suggest you go peacefully with these officers of the law and no one will get hurt."

"But he's done nothing wrong!" Rebecca screamed and pushed to the front. Caleb jumped off his horse and ran to her. He put himself bodily between her and Alistair.

"Listen to your father, woman! This is no place for you."

She swung around to her father. "But Papa, I told you—he's innocent! Alistair MacGregor could not have killed anyone last night because—"

"No!" Alistair shook his head at her.

Caleb was faster and clamped a hand over her mouth. Then he leveled a look at Alistair.

"That's my boy," Royce laughed behind him, unable to see the lethal nonverbal conversation taking place between the two men. "Take her into the house. This is man's work. Cuff him."

Dragged away toward the house, as she struggled wordlessly, men approached Alistair from behind and slapped iron cuffs on him before he could react. In horror, she watched the panic in his eyes just before they started to glow. Too late she realized Caleb's hand to her mouth was cutting off her air supply and she couldn't breathe.

An inhuman growl was the last sound she heard before she sagged to the ground unconscious.


	13. Chapter 13

_A/N - Oh, I'm on a roll now, lol! Here you go-a whole three days early! xx_

**Chapter 13**

Alistair knew what was happening to him, but he was powerless to stop it. Or so he thought. Feeling the first pin pricks of sensitivity, he heard someone shout 'look at his eyes!' and quickly shut them. His heart was beating far too quickly. It was like his body was on fire. The rise in his heart rate usually precipitated a change to his altered state. And the guttural sound that accompanied it was starting to rumble up from deep inside. _No, dammit!_

Out of the corner of his eye he'd seen Rebecca, could still hear her screams, but couldn't focus on that if he wanted to maintain even a shred of control. She had the gem—for that he was thankful—but she was apparently too far away for it to have any effect on him. Then they were cuffing him and shouting and his senses became overwhelmed. Frantic, he did the only thing he could think of—he focused his mind's eye on her face and the look she'd given him when he'd started to change at the most crucial moment of their lovemaking. He'd fought it then; he could fight it now. He must—because she trusted him. And because their entire future depended on it.

When he gained a measure of control, he opened his eyes only to see Caleb carrying her away from the scene. He didn't know why she had collapsed—perhaps in an effort to draw attention away from him? In effect, that's what it did. The men around him, for just a moment, became less focused on him and more on her. When they turned back, he was under better control. But only just. Little good it did. He felt a sudden sting in his left shoulder blade and immediately began to feel groggy. Had someone shot him with some sort of tranquilizer? The last thing he remembered was being dragged back into an awaiting, caged transport.

* * *

"Is she awake?"

Isabella lifted her head from where it lay against the quilt of Rebecca's bed. "Yes, but she's still not talking." She leaned over her sister. "Please, Becca," she tried again.

"This is ridiculous. Let me try." Helen—who had arrived only an hour before—scooted her aside. "Rebecca Anne, this simply will not do. The house is in an uproar. Your father has locked himself in the study and is drinking—_drinking_, of all things! And poor Mr. Darrington has planted himself outside your door and refuses to leave, even to sleep."

_Poor Mr. Darrington could rot in hell. _

Helen saw the expression on her face. "Now, now, dearheart. The poor man thought he'd killed you. He's beside himself with worry. He just wants a moment to reassure himself that you are well and then we can send him on his way, all right? Please?"

Rebecca turned disinterested eyes toward her aunt. _Caleb, remorseful?_ Now that would be quite the sight to see. But no. He was partially responsible for this mess, she was sure; let the bile of his own regret eat him alive. It would no doubt better than how Alistair was faring. _Alistair!_ She turned her head away again and let a fresh flow of tears run down onto the sheets.

"She's crying again! Oh, Aunt, what can we do?"

Helen stood, her pretty round face a mixture of puzzlement and worry. "Send for Jessica Breckenridge. Aren't they best friends? Perhaps she can help."

Jessica arrived within the hour. "What happened?"

The three women filled the tiny passage outside the bedroom and spoke in whispers. "They arrested that MacGregor fellow right there in the driveway this morning," Helen went on to explain. "It was apparently quite the scene. As I understand it, the poor thing," meaning Rebecca, "was screaming that he was innocent." Helen wrung her hands. "Now she won't eat or speak. She just lies abed, crying her eyes out, poor dear."

"No. She stopped crying a little while ago," Isabella clarified, "which is even more distressing. I almost wish she would start again. Anything would be better than that hollow, dead look." She shuddered.

"Mr. MacGregor was arrested? But why?"

"The murders," Isabella whispered, a horrified tone to her voice.

"From what the servants have said, Mr. MacGregor's reaction to being cuffed was an absolutely frightening thing to behold. And that awful, animal sound! Why, it gives me the willies just thinking of it, and I wasn't even there."

"I thought that sound came from somewhere nearby, or some_one_ else," Isabella said. "But poor Mr. MacGregor did look a bit feverish."

The other women turned in surprise.

"Well, it's true!"

Helen shrugged at Jessica and lowered her voice even more. "Young Mr. Darrington had to physically restrain our dear girl. He got a wee bit overzealous, though, I'm afraid, and caused her to pass out. Ever since they revived her she's been in this listless state."

"Has the doctor been in to see her? Perhaps she was injured."

"Oh, yes, although she wasn't any more cooperative for him, I dare say. He said there's nothing physically wrong with her." Helen grabbed Jessica's hand. "Oh, you must try to talk to her, dear. If she continues like this, I fear for her health!"

Jessica listened carefully to both women. Caleb 'restrained' Rebecca and caused her to faint? Oh, this was not good. And just why did everyone feel Mr. MacGregor was such a threat? She certainly hadn't gotten any negative vibe from the man, herself, when she met him. Rebecca completely trusted him. And Rebecca had very good instincts about people. Even so, the man had been nothing but trouble in her life since he arrived in the area. Perhaps there was more here than she knew.

"I'll talk to her," Jess finally agreed. "Try to figure out what's wrong."

"Oh, thank you, my dear! Isabella and I are at our wit's end!"

As the others left, Jessica knocked softly then, hearing no answer, quietly pushed open the door and approached the still figure on the bed. Whatever was going on, it appeared to be no act. "Becca, it's me, Jess. Are you awake? Will you talk to me?"

Rebecca slowly turned her head and looked at her friend, but with sunken eyes and a such a shadow on her face that Jess had never seen before.

"Jess?"

"Yes, it's me!"

Rebecca craned her neck farther around, checking the room for others. The door was closed. They were alone.

"Jess, you have to help me."

"Anything, darling. What can I do? Do you need water, or-or—"

"They arrested Alistair this morning. Or, is it still morning? I don't even know."

"It's about the noon hour. And yes, your aunt told me what happened. I'm so sorry."

"They arrested an innocent man, Jess, and now he could be hanged for crimes he didn't even commit!"

"Do you—do you think there could be anything to their claims? I mean, they must have had _some _reas—"

"Absolutely not! I heard Royce say there'd been another murder last evening, but you and I both know where I was and who I was with—the entire night! Alistair _couldn't_ have committed that crime, but he won't let me tell them that!"

Jess sucked in a breath. So she'd gone through with it just as they'd planned. "Does your father know?"

"He won't even give me an audience, the stubborn man, no doubt because Caleb seems to have suddenly grown a conscience. He thinks he is protecting me, though God only knows why!"

Jess sat on the edge of the bed. "Perhaps because he doesn't want to see you hurt."

Rebecca rubbed her eyes. "If that's how he truly feels, he would go to his father and tell him the truth. I was with Alistair last night—_all _night."

"Does Caleb knows that?"

"He does now."

Jessica rubbed her temple as Rebecca pulled her arm out from beneath the sheets and opened her palm. A large emerald stone winked at them both. "Oh! That necklace . . . ."

"I had left it with Alistair last night. He came this morning to return it to me—said there was something he had to tell me about it—something important. But Royce interrupted him. That's when everything fell apart."

"What do you think he wanted to tell you? That it was stolen, perhaps?"

"No, no, nothing like that. He just said it was imperative I keep it on me at all times—for my protection."

"What _protection _could a gemstone possibly give you, other than financial?"

"That's just it—I don't know, but that's what he said. I just can't help feeling that Alistair is the one who needs protecting right now, not me." She sat up suddenly and grabbed her friend's hands. "Jess, I need you to do something for me."

Jess eyed her warily.

"Nothing difficult. Someone needs to tell Charlie."

"You want me to go to _Bridgewood?_"

"He probably doesn't know what happened yet. Alistair needs his help. Charlie will know what to do. And—and give him this. Maybe he knows about it, too."

The last thing Jess wanted to do was ride to Bridgewood, but the look in Rebecca's eyes spelled desperation. Perhaps if she agreed, she could negotiate something in return. Smoothing a hand down her friend's silky hair, she said, "All right, I'll go. For you. But you have to promise me something in return."

"Anything."

"You'll get out of this bed, get dressed, and eat."

"I will."

"Then you will go to your aunt and tell her to proceed with the wedding arrangements—"

"What?!"

"At least for now. And do _not _tell your father about last night, do you hear me?"

"But—"

"Caleb is right. It's for your protection. In his own way, he still cares for you, Becca. Let him do this one thing for you—give you his name. It will buy us some time. We'll worry about the rest later."

Stunned, Rebecca stared at her. _Just give up and give in?_ Agree to marry a man she despises? She'd already made that deal with the devil and he hadn't kept his end of the bargain! No, thank you. This was too much. And what about Alistair? What about their future together? "Forget I asked, Jess. I'll do it myself." She shoved the blankets away and stood. As soon as she did, the room started to spin and she fainted back onto the bed.

* * *

They cancelled the banns the next day. After hearing Rebecca had fainted again, Isabella told her Helen had marched into her brother-in-law's study. "If you don't want to lose your daughter, you'll cancel that blasted wedding at once!"

Her father still hadn't spoken to her, and Rebecca didn't know if he was relenting or just postponing, but for now, she had a reprieve and a little taste of freedom. She took full advantage. As soon as they allowed her a horse, she headed out. She would go to Bridgewood, herself. And then she had another errand in mind.

"Charlie!" She banged on the door and tried to see through the windows. A few minutes later, he finally appeared.

"What is it, milady?"

"It's Alistair!"

He opened the door wider and took in Rebecca's frazzled state. "Be he with you? I ain't seen him for days. He's prone to going off on his own, a course, but it's not like him to—"

"He's in jail, Charlie!"

"_What?!_ He cain't be in jail. No, no, no. This is not good."

"I agree! I must get back or they'll come looking for me, but I had to give you this." She handed him the gem on the chain. "Get it to him, Charlie—however you have to do it. He said something to me about it having powers—"

"—to control th' beast. Aye."

She frowned. Charlie made it sound as if the 'beast' were a separate entity from Alistair. "He feels I need protecting, but he's wrong. If he . . . changes while in jail, I fear what they will do to him."

Charlie pocketed the gem. "I'll get it to him, milady. Don't ya worry none."

It was all she could do. A trial date had been set two weeks hence. Until then, he must remain calm. The rest she could take care of, herself.

* * *

"Shouldn't you be at the Reynolds' wooing your bride-to-be?"

Caleb pulled off his gloves, set them on the entryway table and rubbed his eyes. It had been a long two days. The last thing he wanted was to spar with his father. He already knew it wouldn't go well. His father should be giddy with glee over the capture of MacGregor. Instead, he was moody, evasive, and restless. He'd never been an easy man to please or live with, but lately his behavior had been positively schizophrenic: up one day, down the next. Tonight he'd returned home late and in the foulest of tempers with fresh blood on his hands. Caleb assumed it was from a bar fight or some such altercation, but he knew better than to ask questions.

"They cancelled the banns, father. It's over."

"What? _Who _cancelled them?"

Caleb shrugged. "Eldon Reynolds, I suppose."

"Without consulting _me?_"

Caleb looked up. "They didn't even consult _me_, so . . . ."

Royce hit him. "That's because you're insignificant!"

Caleb put a hand to his bruised cheek and stared at his father. It was one thing for him to constantly express disapproval, but he was insignificant? That went too far. He'd done just about everything the man had ever asked, including agreeing to this God-forsaken marriage to a shrew of a woman, so why the sudden outrage? It was _his _life they were talking about! He stood up straighter. "Guess that means you won't be getting that new coach and four you've been eyeing, then, will you? Without the Reynolds' property, the railroad will take another route. Pity. It would give you another pathetic creature or two to beat up. Do what you want to do; I'm done."

Unprepared for his son's surprising defiance, Royce's face purpled with rage. He grabbed his trembling fist to keep it from shaking and took a breath. "What I do, I do for you, dear son," he gritted out, low and menacing.

Caleb balked. "For me? You think I want to be saddled with a woman who not only doesn't love me but who's tainted goods? No, thank you, father. I'll take my chances finding a bride on my own. The deal's over. Dead."

"I won't be defied by anyone—not by a silly chit of a girl—and certainly not by you! Why, if you knew what kind of blood flowed in your veins—"

"Yours, I assume. Or am I my mother's by-blow? I never was quite certain on that point—"

It happened so fast, Caleb didn't even realize what had hit him, or how deep. The attack knocked him off his feet, then he felt a sharp sting. He looked down. Crimson ran in rivulets down the now shredded fabric of his fine lawn shirt. In shock, he looked up at his father.

Royce's face had a similarly horrified expression. "Dammit!" he roared, in a voice several notes deeper than Caleb was used to hearing. "Now look what you made me do!"

Caleb gasped. Dark veins covered his father's face, and his hands now looked more like paws with their deadly, razor sharp nails. Injured though he was, he scooted backward in fear. His father was the _beast?_

Royce was pacing back and forth on all fours, eyeing him like prey. It made every hair on his body stand at attention. If it hadn't been for the sudden pounding at the door—a servant, no doubt, worried after hearing the racket—Caleb wasn't certain what would have happened next. Without taking an eye off his father, he shouted back, "Everything's fine. Go about your business."

Royce, realizing he was trapped and about to be discovered, scanned the room for any kinf of egress. Seeing none, he sprang toward the big bay window and escaped, shattering it in a crash that rained shards of glass down all around Caleb.

Their steward, Banks, hearing the ruckus, pushed his way in and found him on the floor, struggling to breathe.

"My lord?"

"I guess I broke it . . . sorry," was all Caleb said before passing out.

* * *

Rebecca prepared her basket as she always did. Taking the freshly baked goods to her poorer neighbors had become almost cathartic in these last few days—and a way to cope. As she made her way along the ridge though, which was a short-cut into town, she couldn't help scanning the beach far below. It reminded her of Alistair and their first meeting.

Charlie had gotten word to her that he'd been able to slip the gem into Alistair's cell on his last visit. He said he'd tossed it toward the rotted end of the only mat in the putrid smelling room without the guard or Alistair any the wiser. She'd felt more at ease after that. Combined with Mrs. Millhouse's retracted statement, she knew it was only a matter of time before they would be forced to release him on lack of evidence. But since there'd been so many witnesses to his partial transformation, things might still be a tad sticky at the upcoming hearing. She would keep her promise to Jess to be silent about being his alibi-for no-because she knew Alistair would want it, too. But if things took a turn for the worse, she would come forth.

If her father wasn't keeping her on such a short leash, she would visit him herself. Instead, she stayed close to home and neighbors, returning to her old way of passive-aggressive rebellion—shutting her father and everyone else out. Aunt Helen had returned home and taken Isabella with her for a short stay. That was fine with her.

She was just about to take the trail inland when the rapid pound of horse's hooves approached from behind. She spun around.

"Oh, thank God, we found you!" Jessica called. Jack Billings rode up beside her.

Dread snaked through Rebecca's body. "What's happened?"

Jessica smiled. "Do you want the good news first or the bad?"

"Jess—"

"We're on our way to release Alistair MacGregor. Come with us!"

Rebecca's heart jumped. That had to be the good news. What was the bad? She was afraid to ask. Jessica was helpful enough to supply the answer before she had to.

"There was another animal-like murder just outside of town last night, just like the others!"

"Oh, no! That is horrible."

"Indeed. But it also means Mr. MacGregor couldn't have done it. He's innocent, Becca. You were right. They've no reason to hold him."

Rebecca's eyes flew to the detective's.

"It's true, Miss Reynolds. I have a judge's release right here."

She dared to breathe. "Oh! Oh, thank heavens!"

"We're headed to the jail right now. We thought you might like to tag along," Jess added, a wink in Billings' direction. "Where is your horse?"

Rebecca dropped her bucket where she stood. "At home. I walked."

"Then take mine," Billings offered, climbing down from his chestnut mare.

"But . . . what will you ride?"

He walked to Jessica's mount and swiftly climbed up behind her. "This works for me."

Rebecca had to pick her jaw up off the ground. A red bloom of color had spread all over Jess's face, but she hadn't balked. _Interesting_ . . . . Leaving her basket where it lay, she climbed upon the second horse and they headed off.

* * *

"I hope there are no bad feelings, MacGregor. Just doin' my job. I apologize for locking you up, but it was in an effort to protect these lovely ladies and the good citizens of Hillshire county. But I am a man who values truth and justice above all, and I'm not afraid to admit when I am wrong." Billings held out his hand to Alistair.

"No harm done, Detective," Alistair said, shaking his hand. Then he rubbed his wrists where the iron cuffs had been.

"You're free to go."

Alistair turned to Rebecca. "Home?"

"Yes. Home," she smiled.

Alistair took her up before him on the trip home. Jessica and Jack Billings had ridden alongside them for awhile, but veered off long before the turn up the hill to Bridgewood.

Alistair watched them go. "What's with those two?"

"Don't ask." Rebecca grinned.

He smiled and turned his attention back to her. "You sure you're all right?"

"Of course," Rebecca said. "I'm perfect, now that you're free. Why do you ask?"

"Because you're leaning as far away from me as humanly possible."

Rebecca blushed and laughed apologetically. "Well, that's because you s-t-i-n-k," she whispered loudly, "to high heaven, as a matter of fact. Nothing personal, you understand."

"Ah." He chuckled. "I deeply apologize, Madam. I do understand. I will endeavor to rectify that the moment I get home. Next time I'll request a cleaning service scrub the cell before I make it my abode."

She laughed. "Let's just hope there isn't going to _be _a next time."

"Amen to that."

"I'm just so thankful you're okay."

"Thanks to you." He dug in a pocket and produced the green stone on the wire chain. He handed it to her. "Thank you for this, by the way. I found it after Charlie left. But I didn't like knowing you didn't have it."

"Your safety was more important than mine."

"I would argue that." Alistair grimaced. "There's still a killer out there, Rebecca. And he's becoming more and more aggressive. I'm going to have to go after him."

"But you can't! You might expose yourself."

"A risk I'll have to take. I'll be careful. But I can't let Adam get away with this."

"Adam?"

"That's the name he gave me—the time I 'met' him in the caves. I have no idea if that's his real name or not. There are three dozen Adams in this county alone."

* * *

Charlie burst through the door the moment they rode up.

"I heard the good news! There's soup in the pot and a chicken aroastin'" he told them. "Plenty for you, too, Miss Reynolds, if ye care to stay."

Alistair laughed and handed her down. "Just get me to a bath—any bath—as fast as you can, Charles, my man, so I can greet my woman properly."

Charlie insisted the creek would be faster than waiting on a pot to boil, and so it had. After a thorough, if a bit icy, scrubbing, he donned a robe and strode back into the house to find Charlie, Rebecca and a hot mug of ale awaiting him.

"Don't you have something to do in town about now?" he asked, a frustrated grin at Rebecca

"Hmm," Charlie frowned. "Can't think o' nothin' right of the top of me head."

"Scram."

"Eh?"

"Make yourself scarce, if you know what's good for you."

"But . . . what about yer dinner?"

"Not hungry."

Charlie put his hands on his hips. "It's hurt, I am, that ye don't appreciate the fine meal I prepared for ye—"

"I'll be _appreciatin'_ it a bit more if you'll kindly get lost. I want to be with my woman, dammit," Alistair growled. "Alone."

"Ach." Light finally dawned. "I kin take a hint."

"Not very quickly, obviously."

Charlie grabbed his jacket from the rack and patted a hat onto his head. Then, with a bow and a cheeky grin, he made a hasty exit.

Rebecca laughed. Before the door had even closed, Alistair swooped her up and made for the staircase.

"We're going upstairs? To your bedroom?'

"Mm-hmm."

"Oh. But what about the cabin?"

"You're getting a real bed today. Besides, I burned the other mattress. Evidence, you know."

"Ah."

* * *

Sated and exhausted but still extremely stimulated, they lay facing each other on the bed, both naked but for the chain and green stone around his neck. Alistair pulled a light sheet over the top of them both to ward off any chill. A faint sheen of sweat still dampened her temples and he pressed her silky hair away from her face, just needing to touch.

Rebecca fingered the gem on his chest. "I was afraid you'd given up on us, on . . . _this_. I'm very glad you changed your mind."

"I didn't. Not really. But now I have this." He put his hand over hers and the gemstone. "As long as I wear it, I won't transform. If nothing else, it means we can be together without fear of me hurting you."

"Which you never will," she reminded him. "So . . . it's like a cure, of sorts?"

"Of sorts, but not exactly. Just a deterrent. A safety catch, if you will. And I'd rather you keep it—there's still a beast out there somewhere. Besides, the day they caught me, I was able to calm myself down without it."

"You were?"

"Yes." He nodded, then grimaced. "I guess you missed that part while Caleb was squeezing the life out of you."

She let that comment roll off, knowing any discussion of Caleb would dampen his mood. "But how?"

"By thinking of you; focusing on you. You see," he reached over and kissed the tip of her nose. "You are as much a magic cure as this stone. You are my real gem."

She slid a hand down the line of dark chest hair and back up. "Oh, I like that."

He groaned and grabbed her hand. "And I like that a little too much. Impatient wench, aren't you? Don't you have to get back home? Someone might be worried."

"They think I'm still with Jess."

"Ah."

She tried to get her hand loose from his but couldn't. Then he started his own exploring. "Uh-uh. My turn. This time we're going to savor every moment."

She started to wiggle again, then got his meaning. "Savor? Oh. _Savoring_ is good."

His chuckle was a deep rumble. "Yes, savoring is very good."

Rebecca closed her eyes a moment and let him work his own kind of magic. There was still time. When she spoke again, her voice seemed to come from far off. "You know, though, if you ever decide you want to toss that piece of rock across the room again . . . I wouldn't be adverse to it."

Alistair's eyes, which had been half closed in concentration, shot open. "No?"

She blinked seductively. "It was quite . . . _exhilarating_."

He stopped breathing. _God_. Then he ripped the chain from around his neck and flung it to the farthest corner of the room.

* * *

The next two days Rebecca spent in the Bridgewood library pouring over the journal the elderly doctor had hidden in the burial chamber while Alistair and Charlie tried to make sense of the bag of bones. Toward afternoon, Alistair decided to rummage around in the cavern near where they'd first met. He invited her to come, but she declined.

"I think I must have a bit of the ague coming on. Not feeling sufficiently agile to be climbing down in the damp today."

He frowned. "You've been working too hard. I pushed you before you were sufficiently recovered." He kissed her sweetly on the lips. "I'm sorry. Let me take you home."

He could push all he wanted. She snapped the book closed. "No need. I think I may head home, but I have my horse. Please don't let me keep you from your work." He'd been wanting to return to the cave for some time, he'd confided to her just the day before, believing there might be more clues there after reading an entry in the journal which talked about the caves.

Alistair frowned. "If you're sure?"

"I'm very sure."

He snaked his arms around her. "Maybe later tonight, if you feel up to it, we could get together. That tree's plenty sturdy to hold us both, you know."

Meaning, he'd climb up and get her.

"If we're really _quiet_, you could stay, you know." Rebecca blushed after making such a bold offer, but she wouldn't turn him down if he was game.

He chucked her under the chin. "I don't think we can do _quiet_," he whispered, "and you need your rest. Besides, I'm supposed to be presenting myself to your father tomorrow as an appropriate suitor, remember? I'd prefer not to meet him at the end of a barrel."

"Right." She sighed heavily. "Okay, then. I will see you tomorrow. Please be careful in the cave. You never know what might be lurking within."

He grinned and patted her backside. "Yes, Ma'am. Off with you. And go directly home. I don't like the idea of you being by yourself for any length of time."

"It's full daylight out, but I will. I promise."

As soon as she left, Alistair had Charlie saddle Chameleon. As it was, there was an errand he needed to do, himself, before the morrow—a particular jeweler he needed to see.

* * *

The next day, Rebecca found herself grinning as she anticipated seeing him again. She let the horse set its own pace toward the manor. It felt good, really good, to be past that whole 'jail' hurdle. Now they could concentrate on each other. She looked forward to every minute,. especially to what her father would say when Alistair approached him later that day. With that happy thought, a laugh bubbled up, and she rounded the corner . . . to find Caleb Darrington waiting for her. He didn't look happy. A hand went automatically to her throat.

"Caleb! Wh-what are you doing here?"

"I figured this was where you'd be. Sooner or later."

Fear clutched her belly. "Are you sick? Y-you don't look well."

"Worried about me?" He laughed darkly. "That's new. Don't be. It's nothing catchy, I assure you. I just came to warn you."

"Warn me? About what?"

"He came back. And he's looking for you."

"Me? What? Who?" When he didn't respond and just kept staring at her, she asked again. "Who is looking for me, Caleb?"

He weaved in his saddle a moment, then clutched his chest. His breathing was labored and sweat was visible all around his temples. Rebecca looked at him with alarm.

"Caleb?"

"The . . . beast." He looked as if to dismount, then collapsed over his horse's neck.

Rebecca immediately dismounted. "Caleb? Caleb!" She shook him. "What's wrong with you? What beast? Do you mean Adam?"

He grunted in pain and opened an eye, but didn't seem able to sit back up. "Who's Adam?" he asked, then looked down at the bloom of color on his chest. "Oh damn. I've opened it again."

She gasped. "Oh, my God, you're hurt! Caleb, what happened? I'll get help!"

"No! He's looking for you—and for me. Just run—hide before he finds you."

"Who? _Who _is coming after me, Caleb? Who is the beast? And don't tell me it's Alistair, because it isn't."

"No . . . know that . . . now. I'm . . . sorry."

It was the first time he'd ever apologized to her. While she would like to have spent time ruminating on that odd fact for a while, there wasn't time. He started fumbling with the buttons on his shirt front. She pushed his hands away. "Let me see." When she did, she gasped again. A trio of deep, angry claw-shaped lacerations covered his chest from collar bone to navel. They'd been patched and salved, but poorly, and were oozing red with fever.

"Oh, my God!"

"Go! And hurry. You have to . . . get out of here."

"I have no intention of leaving you here like this!" At least he was still on his horse. She looked around. Not another soul in sight. She'd have to do this herself. Alistair should still be at the caves, and the trail to the beach wasn't far. He would help.

She pressed the fabric of his shirt closed over his wound to stanch the fresh flow of blood, then ripped off the hem of her underskirt and tied it as tightly as she could around his chest. Then, taking up the reins of both horses, she walked them down the path as quickly as she could safety go. "We're going to get help, Caleb. Don't try to move."

"No, Becks. Forget about me. Too . . . dangerous."

The danger was real, all right—of him expiring of his wounds before she got help. And it wasn't very far away. "Just tell me who I should look out for and I'll be careful. Do you have a name?"

"Oh yes, I do. Don't you know? Or, I guess you don't. I didn't even know until quite recently." he said, and had the audacity to laugh. The pain caused him to go into a coughing fit.

"Just tell me, Caleb, and quickly!"

"Right. It's . . . Darrington, actually. Royce Darrington."


	14. Chapter 14

**Chapter 14**

Royce Darrington was the _beast?_ As many times as Rebecca tried to wrap her mind around it, she failed. She'd known him for years. It simply wasn't possible. And yet the claw marks across Caleb's chest didn't lie. He couldn't have done that to himself. And why would he make something like that up? It affected him, as well.

She didn't know, but there was no time to wonder about it. An angry, dark band of clouds was rolling in from the ocean. Far in the distance the sky and water had become one. Rain—and lots of it—was headed their way. She trudged ahead. Storms were common this time of year, although this one looked rather ominous. Thankfully, the tide was still out. Alistair should be down in the caves taking advantage of whatever time he had before nature kicked him out.

The horses must have sensed the approaching storm. They both balked at having to walk down to the sandy beach. She pulled them on at an agonizingly slow pace. She gazed over at Caleb. He hadn't spoken a word since he collapsed and the poor horse's coat ran red with his blood.

Finally, she made it to the cave. "Alistair!" she yelled into the yawning entrance, uncertain how far deep into it he was. Apparently, not that far, as he instantly appeared.

"What is it?"

"Oh,thank God!"

Alistair looked beyond her to the injured man sloped low over the horse's neck. "Charlie! I need you, now!" he shouted, and approached the horse. Then he realized who it was. "What happened to him?"

"He's been mauled!"

Alistair kicked himself. Instead of searching Dr. Bridgewood's notes and the caves for clues as to his own situation—and getting wrapped up in his relationship with Rebecca—he'd forgotten his original mission: find the animal who had been doing all the killing. "Get my bag. Hurry," he ordered, as Charlie came running.

"Alistair . . . ."

"We need to get him to the manor," he said, ignoring her and shifting into triage mode. He made a cursory check of the wounds. "I'll need all of my tools."

"Alistair?"

"You did well," he approved, recognizing the torn lace of her undergarment and noting how tightly Caleb had been bound up. Then he saw the look of concern in her eyes. "I'll do everything I can for him, sweetheart, I promise you." Even if he is scum.

"Bridgewood may not be safe."

He looked up. "What? What do you mean? I thought I was cleared of all charges."

"You were, but . . . Royce is looking for us."

And he probably always would be. Bastard. Unfortunately, like father, like son. He shrugged. "I'll deal with Royce; don't worry about it."

"But Royce is the beast!"

Caleb's eyes blinked open at that, and Alistair froze. "Royce?" He didn't even need to ask. He could see the confirmation in the younger man's face.

"He's looking for me . . . and Rebecca."

"Why Rebecca?" Alistair looked at Charlie. They'd been about to lift Caleb down to the ground, but he changed his mind. "No time. We need to get to Bridgewood."

Rebecca balked. "But that's the first place he'll look!"

He lifted her to her mount then climbed up behind the injured man. "It's the only place that's safe. The gem?" he demanded.

She pulled it out of her pocket. The chain was broken, but still attached. "Here." She held it out to him.

He shook his head. "Make sure you keep it on you at all times, do you hear me? _At all times_. Charlie, bring up the rear with Chameleon. Let's go!"

As soon as they carried Caleb through the front door, Alistair started barking orders. "Make sure all the guns are loaded then lock all the doors and windows—and shut the fireplace flues!"

As Charlie ran to do that, Rebecca followed Alistair into his office where he laid Caleb out onto the pool table, oblivious of the blood running down into the dark green felt. It would have to serve as an examination table.

"The flues? Surely, he couldn't come down a chimney?" she asked.

"Frankly, I don't know what he's capable of." He looked over at her. At his life. "I'm not about to take any chances."

"If he's as strong as you, won't he be able to get in through the windows, even if they're locked?" Rebecca asked in a small voice.

"Fortunately for us, Dr. Bridgewood prepared for just such an emergency. All the windows have iron bars that can be pulled down into place." Seeing her fear, he tried to reassure her with a hand to her chin. There wasn't time for anything else. All he could do was ask her to trust him. "We'll be fine, sweetheart; don't worry." But his mind was racing. He was still trying to bend it around the fact that Royce had been the one who was doing all the killing.

Charlie came back, a rifle in each hand and pistols in his pockets. He set one on the table next to Alistair.

"I won't need it."

"Maybe _I_ will," Charlie said, grim faced.

Alistair looked at him. "I need my bag and instruments. Can you get them?"

"Sure."

"He's lost a lot of blood," Rebecca pointed out, as Charlie left the room again.

"He'll live. He just opened his stitches. I need the brandy from the cabinet."

She ran to get it. When she came back, Caleb was awake again.

"Why is he looking for you and Rebecca?" Alistair demanded.

"I . . . defied him."

"Defied him, how?"

Caleb looked over at Rebecca. "I gave up."

Rebecca met his eyes, understanding. He'd given _her _up. He must have told his father. "And I defied him, too."

"Now that I've seen what he is, I suppose he plans to . . . finish me off. But I'm guessing he wants Rebecca in order to get to you."

_Because he knows who I am_, Alistair pondered. Of course.

Caleb's breathing was becoming labored. "Shut up and lie back. I need to get ready. Here, drink this." He offered him the bottle of brandy.

Caleb tried to push it away. "Don't . . . need it."

"You will."

In the end, Caleb won out. With only minor screaming, he endured the cutting away of putrefied flesh and re-stitching by sheer will and biting into a cue stick handle. The man was nothing if not stubborn. Fine with him. He might need information from him later. Alistair settled for using the brandy to clean the wounds—three large gouges down the chest, angry and feverish. He grimaced. Royce had spared no thought for his own flesh and blood. His aim had been to kill. A hair deeper and he would have. As it was, they were serious flesh wounds, but unless he got infection or re-opened them and bled out, the boy would most likely survive. He tried to imagine this from Caleb's perspective and felt a twinge of sympathy. His world had very suddenly tilted on edge. "Who sewed you up?" he asked softly.

"Our steward, Banks. He isn't trained. I forced him to do it. He's been hiding me for two days."

"Where did Royce go?"

"He ran off after the attack. Used to be, whenever he got really angry at me, he would . . . disappear for that long afterwards. I always figured he was just blowing off steam somewhere—bar fights, you know. On more than one occasion he came home bloodied and bruised, but always calmer." He sighed, frustrated. "I should have known then."

"You thought he was just drinking it off?" Rebecca asked.

Caleb shrugged then groaned at the pain that tiny movement caused. "I guess. Seemed plausible enough at the time. He's always had a violent temper, but he'd never hit me like that before. He'd never . . . _changed _like that." He shuddered. "You have to believe me. I never . . . knew. Not very smart, am I?"

"Who would expect their own father of being a beast?" Rebecca replied softly, placing a hand on his arm.

Alistair saw but tried to ignore it. She was keeping him calm; that's what was important. They'd deal with the other later.

Charlie had just returned with more ammunition when they heard something overhead. He jumped a foot off the ground. "Gor! What was that? He's on the roof!"

"Don't worry," Alistair repeated. "He can't get in."

Charlie didn't look like he believed that. He picked up his gun. "But he's still tryin'."

Then they heard it. The animalistic cries.

"That sounds like the other side of the ravine," Rebecca noted. "Could there be more than one of them?"

Alistair tied off the last long stitch and snipped it. He shook his head. He'd seen how fast the man could move. "No. He's just taunting us—me. He knows we're in here. Soon as I'm done, I'll go after him."

"No!" Rebecca put a hand to his arm, but he gently pushed her away, washed his hands in the basin, and donned his jacket. He couldn't let her emotions affect him.

"I need to draw him away from the house."

"But you're needed here."

Alistair spared a look at Caleb, then put his hands on either side of her face just as she had done to him on more than one occasion. "Sweetheart, trust me."

"Perhaps you two could do with less of the 'sweethearts' in my presence, hey? Jilted bridegroom over here, remember?"

Alistair glared at him. "Don't let anyone past this door," he told Charlie, pointing. "Shoot first; ask questions later."

"Aye. The sucker won't get past the likes o' me, you kin count on it."

"I am."

"But what about the gem?" Rebecca pulled it out of her pocket. "You need to take it with you!"

"What gem?" Caleb grunted.

Alistair shook his head again. "As long as I have it on me, I'll be vulnerable. No, I need my strength."

"Alistair!"

As he slammed the door behind him, fear for him brought tears to her eyes.

"What gem, dammit?"

"Nothing," she said, anguished. "It's not important."

"I'm sorry . . . Rebecca," Caleb whispered from the table. He tried to sit up.

Charlie pushed him back down with the lightest of touches. "Here now, man. You be too weak."

"Help me up, for God's sake. I'm not an invalid. I can at least hold a gun."

Charlie hesitated a moment. The man was sweating at the temples, but he'd proved he was stronger than he looked. He no longer seemed in fear of passing out. With a nod from Rebecca, he handed him a pistol. "Wait. D'ya hear that?"

Rebecca and Caleb froze. "I don't hear anything," Rebecca said.

"Those dang haunted tinklers. They stopped."

Rebecca's lips twisted. "Do you mean, the _wind chimes?_"

"Aye." Charlie ignored the humor in her voice. "What d'ya think it could mean?"

"The wind died down?" Caleb's sigh sounded more like a groan. Only the wind hadn't died down. The storm was nearly upon them. They both looked over at Charlie.

He puffed out his chest. "Ye think I'm funnin', but they ain't never stopped since I been here."

"Perhaps Alistair took them down," Rebecca offered, although she had her doubts about that, too. Whatever the cause, she shared Charlie's discomfort. It certainly didn't make her feel any easier. She fingered the rock in her pocket.

"Is he . . . like my father?"

Spoken into the deadly quiet, the question seemed even more haunting. Rebecca exchanged another look with Charlie. "Alistair is a good man, Caleb. A _good _man."

"He killed those thieves, didn't he? The ones who attacked your coach."

"They would have killed my sister and me. And Jason."

He nodded and rubbed a hand down his face. "How could you have kept this from me?"

She straightened. "And what would you have done with it if I had? You'd have run straight to your father, and then where would we be? Alistair is the _only _one who can stop Royce, don't you understand?"

"_I'll_ stop him." He started to get up again.

"You're wounded. And he's your father!"

"That . . . _thing _out there is _not my father!_"

"Ach. Now look what ye done? It's bleedin' again." Charlie walked over to him. "Sit still or ye're gonna be a bleedin' _corpse_. Hand me that last rag, if you please, Miss Rebecca."

She jumped up to get it but saw that the basin of water was red with blood. "We need clean water."

"They's some boilin' on the stove in the kitchen."

"I'll get it."

Both men shouted "no!" at the same time, but both were too late. She was through the door before they could act.

* * *

Alistair made another circuit of the property. Royce was nearby—he could smell him—but the man was too good about covering his tracks. Or confusing them. He also seemed to be able to move much quicker than he could. Another mystery.

So Caleb had not known about his father. But how was that even possible? Was there another gem? Or had the concoction Bridgewood fed him given him different abilities and more control? If so, did he also have different weaknesses? And when had all this first shown up? He sighed. There was no time to ponder such questions. He had to be extremely alert if he didn't want to end up another one of Royce's victims. Dusk was falling and the storm was beginning to rage.

* * *

"How is MacGregor so certain my father can't get in?" Caleb asked as Charlie checked his gun for the twentieth time. "We're sitting ducks in here."

"The man knows his business."

Caleb grunted. "Okay. Say it's true. But what's to stop him from setting—"

Charlie sniffed, alert.

"—fire?"

Both men stood, Caleb with some effort, and shouted for Rebecca. When no answer came, they yelled again. Then they both headed to the kitchen.

Smoke was beginning to roll in under the door, but she wasn't there.

Caleb scanned the room, one hand pressed to his chest, the other holding out a gun. "You don't think she went outside, do you? Tell me she wouldn't that crazy!"

"Nay," Charlie said, and the tone of his voice made Caleb turn. He had to shove the man aside to see what he was looking at. When he did, he gasped.

The dumbwaiter door was open and the pulley-and-weight service elevator was down in the basement. Caleb was the first to put it into words. "He's got her!"

Charlie was still shaking his head. "How did he figure that out?"

"I don't know, but I'm guessing she didn't go willingly. _Dammit!_"

"Ach. That be for sure." Charlie picked up the broken chain at the base of the chasm. The gem was still attached. _Bloody hell._

Caleb headed for the door but Charlie held him back. "What're ye thinkin', man? Ye can barely stand, let alone—"

Caleb cocked the rifle at him. "Step aside. And don't get in my way."

"But ye don't know what ye're up against!"

"I know enough. I'll take my chances. Hey, what's that?" He suddenly looked past Charlie's shoulder. As soon as Charlie turned, he cocked him on the head with the butt of the gun. "Oops. My mistake." He struggled to ease him down to the floor without dropping him. "Sorry about that, my good man, but this is my fight, too." As soon as he said it, Caleb realized his new problem. The house was, indeed, on fire. "Ah, hell, this is going to hurt," he groaned, and with his one good arm dragged Charlie all the way out the front entry and down the steps into the drive and away from the house.

* * *

Alistair smelled the smoke minutes before he saw it rising above the north tower—the side where Rebecca, Charlie and Caleb were—and realized he had to get this over with before it got out of hand. That meant making the first move.

"I'm here, Adam," he shouted into the wind. "Or should I say _Royce?_ Quit playing games. You want a fight; you got it. Come and get me."

A figure immediately emerged from behind a tree far to Alistair's left. Then he was over to the right.

"I prefer to play with my prey first, don't you? More fun that way."

"I've seen the way you play. By assaulting, then murdering innocent people." Alistair scanned the area for the best vantage point.

"Oh, come now, MacGregor—if that's your real name—you've killed before. You know the thrill."

"Unlike you, I don't have any prey. And I don't get a _thrill _from killing anyone." A lick of red flame shot up above the roof line and caught his eye.

"Oh, dear," Royce tsked. "Well, you're not any fun. And you're more worried about them, aren't you?" He sighed. "So lame. Compassion is a weakness, don't you know? I really should have killed you the first time we met. You are an embarrassment to our species."

"As I recall, you tried." Alistair inched around a head stone. "And don't for a minute lump me in with you."

"You're as much a monster as I am. You're just in denial," Royce called back. "This time, I'll be sure to do it right."

"There won't _be _a second chance."

"You say that, but you don't know the ace I have up my sleeve." Royce giggled.

Circling the graveyard and inching ever closer, Alistair sprinted to the old oak at the edge of the ravine. Still nothing. He scanned the yard again. That's when he heard it—her heartbeat. _Rebecca was nearby!_ He spun around. But where? How? His nails instantly dug into the tree he took refuge behind, etching grooves into the bark. Either she was too far away to affect him with the gem or she didn't have it. Neither scenario was good. He squinted into the darkness as rain began to fall.

The low cloud cover nearly obliterated everything within view. Darkness was not normally an obstacle for him as his hypersensitive eyes could pick up even the faintest ambient light. But this was different. He strained to make out shapes in the thick fog, which he suddenly realized was no rain fog but smoke. The building was now fully engulfed.

"Find her yet? She's being so cooperative, bless her heart—quiet as a mouse." Again, that maniacal laugh.

Alistair's head pounded. Where was she? Shutting his eyes for a moment, he listened. _There_. But where?

Alistair spun again as lightning flashed. It hurt his eyes and for a moment he was blinded. He blinked them several times then squinted again. As he faced the house, for an instant he could swear he saw Charlie through it on the other side, lying on the ground. But how was that possible? The light must be playing tricks on his eyes. They hurt. He shook his head and that's when he saw her. High in the tree, a small figure rested between two branches, completely still. And bleeding. Rebecca! She was above his head. He roared as the thunder from the strike shook the ground around them. He'd just turned to climb when everything happened at once. Another roar, a feeling of wind rushing toward him, and then the loud crack of gunfire.

Something caught him in the back and yanked him down . . . on top of someone else.

"Get away from him!" Caleb shouted above the storm. He cocked the rifle again.

Alistair turned, painfully. Royce's nails had sliced into the back of his shoulder before he was felled. He looked down at the man, then up at Caleb limping toward them, his gun poised and ready. "No, Caleb! He's down!" Royce was still breathing, but just barely. He wasn't going anywhere but straight to hell.

He pushed Royce aside and got to his feet with a grunt of pain. He didn't have time for this. "Watch him, but no more shooting," he ordered, then looked back up into the tree. "I need to get Rebecca."

Hearing her name must have snapped Caleb out of his rage. He looked up at her, then slumped down beside his father.

* * *

Two coaches and a number of riders lead by Jessica Breckenridge and Eldon Reynolds rode up to the burning house. Charlie was just getting to his feet when they arrived. He looked around, confused.

"Is everyone out?" someone shouted to him. He turned back to the house. One wing was black as night—or not there, he couldn't tell—but no longer ablaze. The other side was still smoldering. The driving rain had put the fire out. Now only smoke filled the darkness. He coughed. But why was he outside? Then he remembered. That scum, Caleb!

"Mr. MacGregor," a female voice called again, heavily laced with concern. "Is he safe? Did he get out of the house?"

Charlie turned to her, then to the house. He had no idea.

Just then a tall figure emerged from the smoke carrying someone in his arms.

"Rebecca!" Eldon Reynolds shouted, just as Alistair went down on one knee. And fainted.

* * *

"Not the best way to meet your father, yeah?"

Rebecca smoothed back the hair from his temple with a smile. "Playing the hero and saving his oldest daughter makes a rather _good_ impression, in my opinion."

He laughed. "Your opinion is all that should matter, but . . . I meant the fainting-like-a-girl part."

"You could never look like a girl. And after seeing your wounds and what you had done, believe me, he knows you to be extremely manly. Come, they're starting the ceremony. We must both attend."

He got to his feet from the sofa in the green salon usually set aside for small tea parties. It was the only place they'd found a few minutes of privacy; the house had been inundated with guests from as far off as London, as well as other dignitaries.

"Do we have to?" He fingered the small pouch in his pocket. They hadn't had more than a few stolen moments alone in days, and he had yet to ask her.

"We are special guests of the man of the hour."

Alistair groaned. Having another Darrington sworn in as Chief Magistrate didn't sit well with him, but he supposed it was fitting and not such a bad idea. At least the man knew where he stood. Better the enemy you know . . . .

"Just try to look a little uncomfortable. Favor your shoulder."

"My shoulder is fine, now."

"_I_ know that and _you_ know that, but we don't want _them_ to know that you heal so quickly."

"Ah. Yes, Ma'am." He brushed her cheek with his thumb. "I wish your wounds would heal as quickly."

She touched her right arm where it was still tender. "I'm fine. Better than you know. In fact, if you're good and attend this event like a good little boy, you know, there may be a reward in it for you later."

He looked at her, eyebrows raised. A little boy, he was not. "Oh, yeah?"

"_Maybe_."

* * *

'Maybe' never happened. After the ceremony there were speeches, and after that, drinking and dancing until late in the night. That was fine with Alistair. He got to spin his lady around the dance floor for real for the very first time. Then Eldon tapped him on the shoulder. They both turned.

"I'd like to speak with my daughter a moment, if you don't mind, sir. In my study."

She looked at Alistair. The last time her father had made such an announcement, it hadn't turned out well for either of them.

Alistair shrugged and nodded. He hadn't had time to speak with him, yet, either, but what could the man possibly say at this point?

She smiled at her father and smoothed a hand down her skirt. "Yes, Papa. I'll be right there."

To her surprise, Isabella had been invited, too.

"What is it, Papa? Is something wrong?"

Both girls took a seat before him on the settee. Eldon let his eyes land on each one a moment. Then he nodded to himself. It was the right thing to do. "As you know," he began, "I've made some very poor decisions—not only recently," his eyes touched Rebecca's, "but in the past. It's time for me to come clean and do the right thing. And that means for all of us."

"But what does that mean, Papa?"

He stood. "We're moving to New York."


	15. Chapter 15

_A/N - So sorry to be late this week. I struggled with this one a bit. But here you go..._

**Chapter 15**

As Alistair waited for Rebecca to return, he took a circuit around the room. The last of the guests in the greeting line had finally moved on, so he stepped in to speak with Caleb. "Big shot, now, huh?"

Caleb turned and grinned, offering his hand. "I suppose I have you to thank for that."

Alistair shrugged. "Wasn't just me."

"And where is the lovely woman of the hour? I guess you'll make your move on her now. Not that you haven't already."

Alistair's eyebrows shot up. He sensed no animosity from the man, but did he actually know or was he guessing? He decided it must be the latter and laughed. "I plan to ask her to be my wife, if that's what you're asking."

Caleb nodded. "Knew it."

"If she'll have me. She still cares for you, though. I'm sure she always will."

Caleb frowned. "Becca and I stopped truly caring for each other a long time ago. My own fault."

"The past always matters. If it didn't, she wouldn't have tried to save your life."

"Another thing I owe you for."

"As you dragged Charlie to safety, I think that makes us about even."

"After I knocked him out." Caleb grinned.

"Yeah. I wasn't going to go there, but since you did . . . ."

Caleb raised his hands. "Ho. I surrender. I don't want the first brawl on my watch to happen before the ink has dried on my commission papers. And with me as one of the participants—"

It was Alistair's turn to grin. "Oh, you'd be the victim."

Caleb laughed, then his face turned serious. "I'm still not comfortable leaving her in your hands—considering what you are. But I suppose it's a moot point since I may become the same thing eventually, eh?"

Said with just enough bravado to cover his fear, Alistair felt for the man. He put a hand on his shoulder. "Not necessarily, Caleb. Only time will tell. We can watch for the signs, monitor your blood for any changes. _Prepare_. But in truth, I don't know of another case like yours, so I can't be certain what the future holds. I'm sorry."

"Thanks for that good news, Doc."

"All I can tell you is I'm here if you need help. Rebecca is, too. We won't let what happened to your father happen to you, trust me."

Caleb shuddered. "That's right. Because I'll kill myself first."

"You say that now, but I'm proof that life can go on. A _good _life. " He patted him on the back, but he could see he remained unconvinced. The feelings were still too raw. "Speaking of life going on," he said to him. "I better go find her before she has to come looking for me."

Caleb grabbed his arm before he could leave. "Thank you."

* * *

"We're moving to New York?" Isabella was on her feet. "Oh, but that's wonderful!"

Rebecca stood, as well, but more out of shock. "_What_?"

"Oh, Becca! Just think. Jonathan is already there!" Isabella had the audacity to jump up and down and try to take her with her.

"But . . . ."

"The house will need to be sold, of course," Eldon continued, "but I've already got a buyer for it. And I have a friend with connections in New York City. He's been after me for a while to join him in his private practice. After the mess I've made here, I think it's best we all get a fresh start."

Rebecca sank back down to her seat. "But what about Aunt Helen?"

"Helen will never leave England, you know that. But she can visit us there, and this way you will always have a place to come to when you want to visit."

That deflated Isabella somewhat. "But who will see to my coming out in New York?"

"You've already had your coming out," Rebecca reminded her. "You don't need another one there. And frankly," she turned to her father. "I see no reason why we even have to make this big move. No one has accused you of anything, Papa. You haven't lost your position at court."

"But Royce found out what I had done. And if he could, others can. The truth will always come out."

Isabella blinked. "What did you do that was so terrible, Papa? I can't even believe it."

"I let a guilty man go free," he admitted. "And then he killed someone."

Rebecca sucked in a breath, but then she thought about it. "Just because you didn't win the case doesn't make you respons—"

He shook his head. "As much as I hate to say it, you might as well know the truth. I withheld evidence that would have proven him guilty. It happened years ago when your mother was still with us. We were short on funds—as we always were back then—and she wanted this house so badly. It was the one and only time I ever took a bribe. But it resulted in someone's life being lost. It's something I can never undo."

Both girls stared at their father.

Eldon continued, grim faced. "With that and all that's happened here recently, I just want to start over. I need to prove myself again. I'm willing to work from the bottom up to do it. I thought Hillshire would be a safe place to raise my daughters, but after the past year—"

"But the threat is gone, now, Papa. Again, I see no reason to leave."

Isabella frowned at her. "Of course you don't. Because you're not thinking of anyone but yourself. You have what _you _want—your Mr. MacGregor. But what about me? The whole reason Jonathan is in New York is because your boyfri—"

"That isn't true!" Or, maybe it was, but she could hardly explain it. "And he isn't _my _Mr. MacGregor." _Not yet, anyway. _And hence the pain in her heart.

"Father's right," Isabella continued. "We need to get out of here. Start over."

Rebecca glared at her sister, then transferred her gaze to her father. She loved them both, but what was the right answer? Finally, she put her hands to her head. "I can't deal with this right now," she said, and ran from the room.

Stunned, she moved blindly down the unlit hallway. She couldn't have said whether she was running toward the music or away from it. Only that she had to keep moving, keep her mind from thinking, keep from screaming until she awoke from this horrible nightmare.

Alistair waited at the end of the hall. As soon as she started past him, he grabbed her from behind and whisked her into an empty room. "Hey. I missed you." He buried his face in her hair. "I want to dance with you again—right in the middle of the room!" He laughed. "Can you believe it? With the freedom this gem gives me, it's like I've emerged from a long, dark tunnel. I can breathe again. I can dance." He sought her neck with his lips. "And I can be with you." He turned her to him and cupped her face as if to kiss her, but seeing the tears in her eyes, he stopped. "What's wrong? What happened?"

She looked into his face and shook her head. "Not here. Just take me away. Anywhere. I need some air."

"You're not feeling well? Here, let's go. There's a side exit." He led her down the stairs and out a door leading to a small garden area bordered by tall hedges. Heading her toward an empty wooden bench out of sight of any of the common room windows, he indicated she should sit. "I'll get you something to drink."

"No, Alistiair, wait. I'm fine. I just . . . _I need you_."

He froze. Returning, he slid his arms around her and pulled her in tight. "Oh, honey, if I only had a way to tell you how much I need you . . . You _have _me," he said, "always." He lifted her to her tiptoes for a kiss. Rebecca immediately wound her arms up and around his neck and kissed him back. The strength of her passion surprised him. A glance around the garden confirmed no curious eyes could be found, but they weren't exactly in the privacy of Bridgewood. Not that the blackened manor was any place to take his hopefully-soon-to-be bride just then.

Rebecca's kisses became so frantic she was nearly clawing at him. They bordered on desperate. He leaned her away from him. "Hey, hey, hey. Slow down. You sure you're okay? What did your father have to say this time? He's committing you to a local nunnery?" He laughed, but her eyes filled with tears. "Or not. Hey." He sat her down and rubbed a thumb across a damp cheek. "Too beautiful for tears," he murmured. "Tell me, sweetheart. What is it?"

"My father . . . ."

"Yes?"

"Alistair. He's moving us to New York. _Immediately_."

He stared. _Us?_ "You mean—"

"He's uprooting the family! Selling the house. He already has a buyer. We're packing up and shipping out just as soon as we can."

He stood. "Is he . . . is he giving you a choice?" Considering her age, she could well make her own decisions.

"I don't think he's thought that far ahead. He just assumes I'm going."

"Then I'll talk to him."

He started to turn but she pulled him back. "Wait. Not yet. I need time to think, to . . . digest all of this. So many thoughts are whirling around in my head, I feel like it's going to explode at any moment. I wish you could just take me home."

"Of course, I will. We'll leave right away."

"No. I mean, to _your _house."

"Oh." Alistair stared into her eyes. Oh, how he would like that, too. Forever. And he could think of a very good way to distract her from her distress. He slipped his hand into his pocket. He'd been carrying it around for days, now, trying to figure out the best time and place. But now just didn't feel right. No, what she needed was a good night's sleep, not his serious questions or amorous attentions, as welcome as they may be. Crouching down in front of her, he smoothed a hand down her arm and brought her knuckles to his lips. "What do you want me to do? Tell me and I'll do it. You want me to take you home? You got it. You want me to take you to Bridgewood, I will. And damn the consequences."

Fresh tears threatened to spill. "I don't know. I just need to think."

Her eyes sparkled in the torch-lit garden—eyes that would forever touch his soul. He brought her icy fingers into his lips once more and then her lips to his. "Then let me take you home."

* * *

As soon as he got back to Bridgewood after dropping Rebecca off, Alistair went straight to the liquor cabinet in the study and poured himself a stiff drink. Charlie came in minutes later to find him bent over the desk, his head down.

"Ach. That Miss Isabella sure is a looker," he said.

"What?" Alistair lifted his head.

"Came out and talked w' me tonight, she did. Greeted me real genteel like, too. Even called me '_Mr_. Cooper.'"

"That _is _your name, Charlie."

"Aye, but the way she said it . . . ." He sighed. "I 'magine I should outta get used to it, hey? S'pose we'll be seein' a lot more'n both ladies, what with you and Miss Rebecca a couple."

"You 's'pose' wrong. That isn't likely to happen now."

"Nay? Blimely. What'd ye do? You an' Miss Rebecca ain't had a little spat already, did ye?"

"No spat. Her family just happens to be moving. To _New York_." He kicked back another shot.

"_What?_"

"You heard me right. As in the _United States of America_. Across the Atlantic!" Alistair slammed the glass down onto the desk.

Charlie frowned. "Ach, then, what are ye gonna do? Surely Miss Rebecca wouldn't up and leave ye now, seein's how ye finally have everything worked out."

Alistair sagged down into the leather chair. "What can I do, Charlie? Her father and her sister are her only family, besides her aunt. I can't ask her to choose between them and me."

"Why not? Seems to me, ye need to at least give her the choice."

* * *

He showed up at the house first thing the next morning for an audience with Eldon. The older man must have been expecting him. He waved him right in.

"I assume you're here because of my announcement last night," Eldon said without preamble and took his stance behind his desk.

A safe place. Or so he thought. Alistair stepped up to the desk, declining a chair, thankful there would be no need for polite small talk first. "Is it in your daughters' best interests to take them away from everything and everyone familiar, including the aunt they are so close to?"

"I'm guessing that comment includes you, too." Eldon sighed. "Rebecca will thrive wherever she is. If you know her at all, you know that much. As for Isabella, she is happy to go. Despite Helen's best efforts, her marriage prospects here are few and far between, as you can well imagine."

"Then take them to London, for God's sake, not clear across the ocean."

"I'm sure I don't need to explain myself to you or anyone else. My decision came after great thought and consideration. As for Isabella, there's also the matter of Jonathan Marley, for whom she's had a special fondness for years. As he and his sister are already in New York . . . ."

_Marley. Georgiana.  
_  
"Yes," Eldon said, watching the play of emotion on Alistair's face. "Think about the awkwardness of that situation. At least in New York, that won't be a factor for Rebecca."

"You mean, _I_ won't be a factor."

"Years ago, you left a vulnerable and sensitive young woman at the altar. What am I supposed to think? If you're here for the reason I assume you are today, who's to say you won't do it again?"

Alistair could feel the heat of embarrassment rising from his neck up. "I wish I could explain, sir. But the situation was vastly different."

"Not from my perspective."

"I see."

"Oh, I doubt you do." Eldon rubbed his eyes and sat in his chair. "Relax, MacGregor. I'm not forbidding anything. Although I'm still not comfortable with you, I owe you—more than my life. And I am not about to make another grave error in regard to my daughter's affections. I've already dealt poorly with her once. I'll not do it again. Rebecca is headstrong and knows her own heart. But I would ask that you not pressure her. Give her time. Let her make up her own mind. I trust, if you truly love her, you'll make the right choice, too."

If only time was what they had a lot of. They didn't.

Rebecca had her ear against the door when it suddenly opened and she nearly fell into her father's arms. She looked up to see Alistair just behind him. "Oh! I was just coming to see you, Papa."

"You can move with us, or you can stay, daughter. The choice is up to you."

* * *

"So we have permission to go out on a drive?"

"All afternoon. What do you think of that? Come," Alistair said, taking her arm and leading her down the front steps. "The sun is out, we have a basket full of food and drink, and I know of a lovely place for a picnic."

Rebecca climbed up into the unfamiliar open carriage. "Where did you . . . ?"

"Found it in an outbuilding on the property. Had to scrub it down a bit, but it cleaned up pretty well, don't you think? Chameleon isn't crazy with the whole idea of being chained to a coach, but he'll be good."

Rebecca gave Chameleon a rub on the nose before taking Alistair's hand up to the carriage seat. "The _whole _afternoon, did you say?"

Alistair smiled. "Indeed."

They settled on a grassy knoll overlooking the sea, ate their simple repast, and watched the sun sink lower and lower on the horizon. A light spattering of clouds dotted the sky in the distance, but the sun was warm and bright. A natural rock wall gave them shelter from the wind. Rebecca closed her eyes and turned her face to the sun as a gull cried overhead.

Alistair watched her. "Oh, how I am envious of the sun."

She smiled and squinted into the blue. "And I'm envious of the gulls. They go where the wind takes them."

He felt the change in her mood and was sorry for it. "You're just as free, too, you know," he murmured. "Your father is letting you decide. That's a good thing."

"Then why does it still feel so hard?"

He stretched his legs out on the printed quilt and turned her face to his. "Whatever choice you make, Rebecca, it will be the right one."

"How can you say that? I either leave my family, or I leave you. And I'm not willing or ready to do either."

He took a deep breath and licked his bottom lip. "Maybe that's because I haven't given you what you need to make your choice."

Her eyes pinned to his.

He dug in his pocket and pulled out a small pouch.

She sat up straighter on her knees. "Oh. What is that?"

He tilted his head with a grin. "First things first. I need to say something to you." He loosened his collar. Was it getting hotter out or what? He breathed again. "I didn't come here to find a relationship, you know. I came to catch a killer."

"And you found him."

"Yes. And to look for answers as to what I've become and why."

"And possibly find a cure. Which you also found."

"Of a sort." He fingered the gem in his cravat. "But even with the gem, who and what I am may never change, do you understand? I may never get better. In fact, I could get worse over time. There's no way to be sure I won't."

"And there's no way of knowing you will. Alistair, life's a risk. For all of us. None of us knows what the future holds. We just rush blindly onward hoping for the best."

"But even my best isn't what a normal man can offer a woman: a home, a family, a future."

"Again, you don't know that."

He turned to her. "As much as I want you to stay, to choose me, it would be wrong of me to ask that of you." He raked a hand through his hair, uncomfortable. "I-I left Georgiana because it was the right thing to do—"

"For _her_. Oh, Alistair. I am not Georgiana."

He looked down at his hands. No truer words had ever been spoken. "No. No, you're not." _You're everything I need to breathe, to live again._ "But there's something else you need to know about me." He cleared his throat. It suddenly felt very, very dry. "You see," he untied the string and shook the contents of the pouch into his hand. Out fell a small gold band set with a blue stone that glinted in the dying light. He held it up. "You see, . . . it isn't just that I know every beat of your heart. It's that . . . mine skips one every time you're near."

Rebecca made a small sound.

"It isn't simply that you've seen me and accepted me—all of me—as no one ever has. And that is a miracle in and of itself. But it's that . . . you are the other part of me."

She covered her mouth with shaking fingers and a trail of tears spilled down over her knuckles.

Alistair licked his lips and reminded himself to breathe. "And it isn't only that you've brought me back to life and I don't—ever—want to be apart from you. It's that," he pulled her hand down away from her face and slid the ring onto one finger, "I don't think I can live without you. I love you, Rebecca Anne Reynolds, with everything I am. And whether you go or whether you stay, that will never change."

She wiped her eyes with her other hand as tears blurred her vision. "Oh, Alistair."

"Ah, dammit. I thought I could do this." His own eyes filled with fluid. "I thought I was strong enough to let you go—I came here with that intention, I swear. But I'm not. And I can't possibly ask you to choose between your family and me." He swallowed. "So here's the deal. This isn't an engagement ring, it's a promise ring. It's my promise that I'm not going anywhere. Not today, not next week, not next year. Make your decision and don't look back. And then, if you decide at some point in the future you want to be with me, I'll come . . . whenever and wherever you are." He sighed. "I just made this infinitely harder, didn't I?"

She curled her hand around the band and pressed it to her lips. "No. I think you just gave me my answer."

"I did?"

She nodded. "That was a promise?"

"Absolutely."

"Then," she brought his knuckled to her lips, "come with me to New York."

His eyes widened.

She pushed him down to the grass and rolled on top of him. "Now that we have that straightened out, can you _promise _me this place is completely private, Mr. MacGregor?"

* * *

"What 'appened? What'd she say?" Charlie followed him into the house after seeing to the horse.

Alistair stood in the middle of the foyer, his face in his hand. His head hurt like the dickens. It must have been the bright sunlight from earlier in the day. He rubbed his temples then opened his eyes to squint at his friend. He was still in shock. "I thought I could do it, Charlie. I thought I could let her go. I went with every intention of doing so."

"Ach, but you couldn't, could ye? 'Cause ye love 'er."

He nodded. "I love her."

"So what 'appens now? She movin' in? If that's so, we've got a heck of a lot of work to do."

Alistair looked up. "No. We're moving to New York."

* * *

A heavy blanket of mist-laden fog covered the Liverpool shore, it's long tentacles of white weaving their way between the lanes of the city and all but shrouding the giant ships and working vessels docked in the harbor, making them appear as ghostly apparitions.

Rebecca stood with Isabella at the end of the loading ramp, shivering from more than the cold. The name _Brooklyn Flyer_ could clearly be seen on the ship's prow.

"It's so big!" Isabella gushed.

"Well, tell me if that's what you think after you've been living on it for three weeks."

Isabella frowned. "So long?"

"Depends on the weather, I suppose," Rebecca shrugged. "Papa says we're likely to see some rough seas, but there's nothing to worry about. People have been crossing the Atlantic for hundreds of years."

"I'm not worried. I just wish it were a steamer. We'd make better time."

Rebecca didn't care. As long as Alistair was with her, the journey could take months. The last of their belongings were being loaded up the ramp. "Shall we go check out our stateroom?"

"Fine. But I still don't understand why we had to come so early and spend the first night at dock."

"It's so we can catch the tide first thing in the morning."

"When are Mr. MacGregor and Mr. Cooper coming?"

Rebecca checked her watch fob. "They had a lot to do last minute. He said they wouldn't be loading until the morning. Come. I haven't slept in days. I want to catch a few winks before he arrives."

They found their rooms, small and sparse, but comfortably equipped. Rebecca immediately curled up on the nearest bunk. "Wake me when he gets here. I want to watch us pull away from shore." And wave good-bye to the only home she's known.

"Aunt Helen said she would be here to see us off."

* * *

Rebecca woke some hours later to a gentle rocking and an upset stomach. She sat up carefully. The room was filling with light, but Isabella was nowhere to be found. Getting to her feet became more problematic. A swell was followed by a dip, and she almost lost the contents of her stomach all over the floor. She dove for the chamber pot underneath the cabinet. Then she froze. Were they already at sea? She shoved the curtain away from small, round window. All she could see was water.

She rinsed her mouth and dashed water on her face, then rushed out of the cabin.

* * *

Alistair awoke with a start, drenched in sweat. He sat up. It was still dark. He breathed a sigh of relief and sagged back down. He didn't remember the dream, but a cold fear still lingered. And an aching hunger. Finally, he heard movement in the outer room. Charlie must already be up. He stood on strangely weak legs and pulled on a fresh shirt and made his way into the ante room.

"Charlie?"

"Ach, praise the heavens!"

"What's wrong? What are you doing? We should be packed and ready to leave."

"Leave?"

Alistair frowned and put a hand on Charlie's shoulder. The poor man appeared completely frazzled. He probably hadn't slept all night. "The ship, remember? Where's your head?"

Charlie rubbed a hand down his face. "Uh, about the ship, milord . . . ."

"'Milord' is it, again?' He laughed. "Yes? What about it?"

"It set sail three days ago. Ye've been comatose since then."


	16. Chapter 16

_A/N - Dear readers of mine - Thanks so much sticking in there with me. A long story, but we're finally on the home stretch. Another really tough chapter. It's long because there was a lot to cover and our beloved couple is apart, and I knew you couldn't handle that for long. So bear with me just a tad longer and I promise you, we'll get there. And as I've been working at this too long tonight and starting to get punchy, please let me know if I've screwed up somewhere. I love you all! xx_

**Chapter 16**

"Is she awake, yet?"

"She is now, but she's doing that silent thingy again," Isabella pouted. "And she's still sick, despite what the captain gave her."

Helen wrung her hands. "At least it helped her sleep for a while, poor dear. We must have faith."

"Oh, Aunt, I feel so bad. Your lovely surprise was ruined."

Helen waved Izzy's concern away. "That's not important now, although I'm very glad I decided to make the trip. I can't imagine you and Eldon dealing with this by yourselves."

Isabella looked at her hands. "Neither can I. She was so terribly upset the day we left port. I've never seen her like that—kicking and screaming, demanding the captain return the boat to shore. If that American lieutenant hadn't stepped in, I was afraid she might jump into the water and start swimming for land!"

"Yes, yes. Poor darling. That was a simply dreadful scene."

"Poor lieutenant! The man has scratch marks all over his arms and face, and a black eye, as well."

"Indeed." Helen grimaced. "Ah, me. She must love him very much."

"The _lieutenant?_"

Helen looked at Isabella over the top of her lenses. "Mr. MacGregor."

"Oh. Of course." Isabella flopped down on the bunk with a sigh. "And I was actually looking forward to getting to know them both better."

"Both?"

"Mr. MacGregor and Mr. Cooper—his, his . . . well, I'm not sure what position he holds, exactly—Mr. MacGregor's man of business or some such." Isabella frowned. "More like his friend, perhaps."

"Well, needless to say, they are not here and it will be a very long time—if ever—that you see either of them again. Oh, I wonder why he didn't come. Has she said anything—given you any indication of what might have occurred?"

"Not at all. Papa says he changed his mind and that was a good thing."

Helen looked up sharply. "But didn't Rebecca and Mr. MacGregor have an understanding? Surely he would not have uprooted himself to move across the Atlantic if they didn't."

"I-I'm not certain. Although he did come to speak with Papa last week."

"Hmmm. I think perhaps it's time I had a talk with your papa."

"Oh, Aunt. Do you think my sister will ever get over this?"

"Of course she will, my dear. In time."

* * *

"What did you do?"

"Do?" Eldon looked up from the small counter he used as a desk in the tiny room.

"Did you bribe him to remain in England?"

Eldon's eyes thinned to slits. "I assume you refer to the missing Mr. MacGregor. And no, I did no such thing. I gave Rebecca the choice—come with us or stay in Hillshire. She chose to come, and he with her, 'twas my understanding. Is she still refusing company? Do you . . . do you think she'll speak with me?"

"She won't even speak with me!"

"This is ridiculous." He stood. "It's time I did something about it."

Helen held her arms out. "I think you've done quite enough already."

"What?"

"You heard me. Remain here. This time I don't believe your autocratic dictator method will have the desired effect. Rebecca's not only heartsick, Eldon, she's having an awful time with seasickness. Let me go about this my way."

* * *

"You ate a little of your soup. Good girl."

"Please take it away."

"I will after you eat another two spoonfuls."

"Aunt—"

"Rebecca," Helen sighed. "No one is sorrier than I as to how events have unfolded, but considering we've been at sea for a week and it's all I've asked of you, I hardly think I've been demanding. And you're becoming skin and bones."

Hearing that tone, Rebecca reluctantly put the spoon into the bowl again. It wasn't like her aunt to get peevish, not that she hadn't given her good cause.

Seeing her acquiescence, Helen went about tidying up the room. "I'm glad they moved you into a room by yourself. You'll rest much easier, now."

A room empty only because Alistair and Charlie had not shown up to board. She turned her head to the wall again. Isabella would be more at ease, at least.

Rummaging around in a bag, Helen pulled out some books. "Do you think you can read a bit?"

Rebecca shrugged. "I don't know. The sickness comes and goes."

"Ah. What's this? A journal. I recall, now, that you were an avid journaler. Why don't you use this time to write out your thoughts? It looks brand new. It will probably last the entire journey."

When Rebecca started to shake her head, Helen sat next to her on the bunk. "Dearheart, you must try. I'd like to tell you a story, if you'll humor an old woman."

"You're not old, Aunt. You're barely forty."

"Pshah. I'm quite a bit older than that, but I trust that secret won't leave these walls."

Rebecca cracked a smile.

"Ah, that's better! I knew you were in there somewhere." She smoothed the skirt on her lap and thought a moment before continuing. "When I lost your uncle, those were some very dark days. He was such a young man! And I was far too young to be saddled with the running of an estate, much less a house full of servants and whatnot. But most of all, my heart ached dreadfully. I couldn't eat, I couldn't sleep—all because I kept thinking about what I said and didn't say to him that last day. Things I'd never be able to undo. It was pointless, really—I knew it even then, but I felt caught in some kind of a whirlpool without end. Sound familiar?"

Rebecca nodded. "That must have been very difficult for you, but—."

"Oh, yes, it was. Very hard. But a dear friend eventually tired of me weeping and moping about and made a very practical suggestion which helped me a great deal. She said, 'Helen, if you have something to say, then tell him.'"

"Tell him?"

"Yes, tell him. Tell Addison."

"But—"

"Yes. I had the same reaction. How could I tell my thoughts to someone who was no longer there? It sounded ridiculous. Nevertheless, I eventually became desperate. I had to regain some control over my life. So I tried it. I wrote a letter to Addy. I poured out my heart. I asked all the nagging questions. It felt so good, I wrote another one the next day. And the next, and the next after that. After a while, it stopped mattering whether I got an answer or not. In one week, I filled up a journal with letters to the man I loved and lost. Maybe he read them from his vantage point in the heavens and maybe he didn't. All I knew is that it helped me. It put things into perspective. It unburdened my heart and let me relive the wonderful moments all over again. And I found room for gratitude in the midst of my pain. I still write to him, on occasion, even to this day."

"But Alistair isn't dead. At least I hope not. What if something terrible happened to him?"

"A big, strong man like that? Highly unlikely. No, I'm sure there's a logical explanation. We just can't know it yet. And so you must wait. The Lord works in mysterious ways, darling. Sometimes he causes heartache to make us stronger. Use this time to look inside yourself—figure out who you really are." She patted Rebecca's leg. "And while you're thinking on that, your father would like you to dress for dinner tomorrow night."

Distressed eyes met hers.

"I know. It's the last thing you want to do, but you'd do well not to fight him on this. Besides, there is a very upset American serviceman to whom you owe your thanks, if not an abject apology."

Rebecca looked up. "_Apology?_ To the man who manhandled me? Why, I have bruises on my ribs and arms—"

"And thank God for that! I'll take a little bruising any day over seeing my niece face down in the sea, thank you very much! You were nearly out of your mind with panic. Had the good lieutenant not stepped in, I don't doubt you would have gone over the side. No, you will cover your bruises, paste on a smile, and engage in polite conversation until your father dismisses you."

"But Aunt—"

"Believe it or not, my brother—bless his stubborn soul—loves you very much and is only doing this for your good." She put a hand to Rebecca's sallow cheek. "Sooner or later, my dear, you'll need to find your way out of this heartache and live again. And the American is very handsome."

"Then I'm sure he and Isabella will be very happy together." Her sister had spoken of nothing else on her infrequent visits.

"Tsk, tsk. That's not like you, Rebecca Anne. The lieutenant only wants to see that you are well. Set aside your embarrassment for one night and let the poor man off the hook. You said you feel better in the evenings. The sea is calm. I'll send May in with water for a sponge bath and help you dress. You used to be able to charm an entire room, you know," she added, with a pointed look. "I think you're capable of working a single dinner table."

"And I think you're confusing me with my sister just now."

Helen leveled her gaze at her. "Don't play ignorant with me, my dear. That ploy might work on your father, but not on me. You know very well who they all came to see. Your sister merely tagged along on your coat sleeves."

_She did?_

Helen answered the silent question with a nod. "I may look the fool at times, but I'm not. _Tomorrow_." With that edict, Helen quit the room.

Rebecca rolled over on the bunk. A single tear ran down her cheek. At least they were getting fewer and fewer. _Oh, Alistair. How could you do this to me? After everything you said!_

With that, she reached for the leather bound journal.

* * *

_October 3, 1853_

_The sea is an endless plane. Even with the stars at night, which I can see from my little round window, I have no perception of progress. We just forever rock and sway. I only know the date because it is posted in the room and Aunt Helen dutifully checks off each day that passes. Time moves on without event, save for the ringing of the bells, which I have yet to comprehend. It matters little. All I know is I'm moving farther and farther away from you._

_They tell me seasickness can hit anyone. It's no respecter of persons. But why doesn't Isabella suffer? I am cruel to have such a thought, but I've always been the strong one. Now I can barely stand. On a good day I manage to keep down a cupful of broth and everyone rejoices. Poor Aunt Helen. She takes care of me each day. While I'm glad to have her here, she is a constant reminder of England and of you._

_I miss you so much. I've stopped asking myself why you didn't show. There are no answers to be found. Not at sea. Papa claims to know nothing and Aunt Helen says he's telling the truth, but he's no longer a trustworthy source of information for me. He isn't the man I grew up believing in._

_That being said, I've come to a decision. I will not move in with Papa and Izzy when we arrive in New York. Pretty audacious of me, isn't it? I'll get a job, rent an apartment; find my own way. It is America, after all—land of the free and the brave. If only I were. Needless to say, it won't make Papa happy, but I'm done trying to please everyone. Who knows? Perhaps one day I'll earn enough to buy myself passage back to England. But don't get your hopes up. I'm not very happy with you right now._

_They say time heals all wounds, but mine are not of the flesh. Half my heart has been ripped away but no one can see it. The other half beats only intermittently. You once told me you could pick my heart beat out of a crowd. Can you hear it now?_

_Oh, Alistair. I pray you are alive and well and one day we'll be together again. It's all I can do . . . ._

* * *

Dinner was served in formal attire in the main dining hall of the ship. As it was the first time Rebecca had been there, she was surprised to see how many other people were traveling with them. The men at the table all stood when she entered on Helen's arm.

"Welcome, welcome, Miss Reynolds. We're so happy you could join us tonight."

Her father and Isabella were already at the table, along with the American serviceman. Rebecca blushed when he caught her gaze. Besides the four of them, two other gentlemen rounded out the large circular table spread with crisp white linen.

"I haven't much of an appetite, I'm afraid, sir," she answered the captain as he showed her to her seat, "but thank you for your gracious invitation."

"Not at all, dear lady," Captain Morrison, a distinguished gentleman with graying hair and wind-burnt cheeks exclaimed with a smile. As they took their seats, introductions were made all around. The gentleman with the long-handled mustache spoke first.

"Please be at ease, Miss Reynolds. Seasickness is nothing to be embarrassed about. My wife suffers from it as well."

"Is she here, Mr. Pemberton?" Aunt Helen asked.

"Sadly no, ma'am. The first trip she swore would be her last. I was fortunate to have gotten her home." He laughed. "I had to promise her the moon to get her back on a ship. Well, a rather expensive piece of jewelry, that is."

Everyone at the table laughed with him.

"Is your home in New York, then?" Helen continued.

"Yes, ma'am."

"You must be very anxious to return, then."

"Indeed. Been gone six long months this time."

Rebecca looked down at her plate. She needed no reminders of how difficult it was to be apart from the one you loved for such a long time.

The lieutenant—David Walcott, she learned was his name—must have noticed her mood change, and the fact she wasn't eating. He leaned over.

"Would you like to get a bit of fresh air, Miss Reynolds?"

"Am I looking as green as I feel?" she whispered back.

"Just a tad. I always feel better with the wind on my face. I'd be happy to escort you in a turn about the deck."

Rebecca swallowed. Fresh air might indeed help. But no. "I'm fine, but thank you."

Helen overheard and stepped in. "Oh, thank you, Lieutenant. I believe that would be just the thing for our dear girl. She's been cooped up in that cabin for far too long."

Everyone's eyes turned to her. She was trapped. "A walk around the deck would be most appreciated, thank you, sir."

* * *

The fresh air was indeed helpful, though thick with the smell of the sea. The giant sails overhead wuffed in the breeze. At the end of the quarterdeck, he led her to the railing. She leaned against it gratefully, her stomach far from settled. Then she looked over at her tormentor and rallied herself to make small talk. "Did you have business in London, sir?"

"Of a sort." When she looked up into his eyes, he continued. "I'm technically on leave. I had to bury my father."

"Oh, my! I'm so sorry for your loss. Your-your father resided in England?"

"Yes, ma'am."

"But you're an _American _officer."

He grinned. "A bit odd, isn't it? I am a second son, you see. As I wouldn't inherit, I'm afraid I was a bit of a wastrel in my youth. Hence, my father dictated it was the church or military for me. Not being a particularly obedient sort, I boarded the first ship that sailed for the States. Once there, I found I couldn't leave. It . . . became home."

Would she come to find the same? She'd only known one place as home. "And you ended up as a military officer, anyway."

"Yes, but for a new country." He laughed. "_My _choice. My father swore he'd never forgive me, but in the end, he did."

"I'm glad." She could only hope her father would one day accept her choices. "So you were you able to see him before he passed?"

"Thankfully, yes. And now I'm headed back home."

Rebecca turned her face into the breeze. "But what about your brother? Will you not miss him?"

"Gerald is eleven years my senior and has been preparing to take over my father's estate for most of his life. As we were rarely in the same place at the same time, we aren't very close, no. Our paths have always been very different. It happens that way, sometimes."

As she and Isabella's no doubt would, as well. She had no intention of spending her time in New York husband hunting. Rebecca stole a glance at the American. He was a handsome man with short-cropped dark blonde hair that reminded her a little of Caleb when he was younger. Then she noticed the fresh scratch on his cheek and a shadow around one eye.

"Oh, my! Did I do that?"

His hand went immediately to the eye, which had started to heal. "Ah. A small price to pay. Not to worry. I've been in far worse scrapes. By the way, you're quite strong for your size." He smiled.

The urge to return that grin was strong, but her thoughts turned serious. "I thank you, sir, for your efforts on my behalf. You must think me awfully strange—"

"No explanation is needed, I assure you. Change is never easy." He took a breath and looked away. "Feeling any better?"

She nodded. "A little."

"We've been fortunate to have such a calm crossing. I've been in squalls this time of year where even the crew was a bit green around the gills."

Prophetic words. The next day, a squall began.

* * *

**BRIDGEWOOD**

"Turn around, very slowly, hands in the air." Caleb trained his rifle on the hooded man just exiting the dilapidated manor. Then the man turned. "_Cooper?_"

Charlie yanked off his hood and shook out his blond hair in the early morning light.

"What the hell are you doing here? I thought you left on the ship with MacGregor."

Just then, Alistair came around the corner of the building from the barn.

"You're kidding me," Caleb said. "Don't tell me. Rebecca's here, too?"

The two men exchanged glances. "No," Alistair said. "But why are you?"

Caleb frowned. That wasn't exactly an explanation. And if Rebecca wasn't here, then . . . "Folks in town said they saw lights on in the house. As it was supposed to be empty, I was investigating. Believe it or not, I was looking out for your interests, MacGregor. Apparently, it wasn't necessary." He put his gun away and his hand on his hip. "What the hell happened to 'I'm going to ask her to marry me?'"

"Guess that didn't work out."

"Why, you—" Caleb charged him, grabbing Alistair by his shirt front.

"We missed the boat," Charlie tried to step between them, throwing an irritated look at his friend. "Do you have to bait 'im like that?" To Caleb he said, "It warn't by design."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"It means we intended to go. The doc fell sick real bad. Was out cold for days."

Caleb, who still had a hold of Alistair's lapels, turned his head in surprise. "So she sailed without you?"

Alistair shrugged. "Unfortunately, she didn't know. We weren't able to get word to the ship in time."

Caleb punched him. He had braced himself for a fight, but MacGregor went down, instead.

Charlie stepped in again. "Ach now, an look what ye done," he said, disgusted. "I just got him on his feet! Help me git him back in the house."

* * *

"Not that he didn't have that coming, but I was surprised I could knock him out so easily. Thought he could heal himself quickly."

Charlie shook his head. "He ain't never been sick a day in his life—that I've known him. That's what's so odd."

"So what gives?"

"The lights," Alistair moaned from the leather sofa.

"Turn 'em down, would ya?" Charlie ordered.

Caleb jumped up to dim the gas lanterns.

"His eyes are real light-sensitive right now. Not sure why."

"It's those spooky cat eyes he's got."

"Ain't never bothered him afore."

Alistair blinked again and opened his eyes, then pushed away the wet rag Charlie had sloshed onto his forehead. "I'm not feverish, dammit." Realizing his shirt was open, he automatically felt for the gem.

"It's on the table right next to ya."

"What's that?" Caleb eyed lead box.

"Never ye mind," Charlie said.

Alistair squinted at Caleb. "Is it customary for a magistrate to wear so many weapons? Is there some particular reason you are armed to the teeth, or are those just for me?"

Caleb covered his breast pocket with a hand. "As I didn't know you were here, how could they be for you? I just like to be prepared before I punch someone out. Makes for a more certain outcome. And how do you know how many weapons I've got?"

"There's the revolver in your shoulder harness, another in your pants, the blade up your right sleeve—make that both sleeves," he corrected, "and another in your boot."

Caleb stood. "You got spies my dressing room, or what?"

"No. I can see—" Alistair stopped and realized what he was about to say. He blinked, then blinked again." Charlie tied the gem back around his neck and the vision disappeared. "I could have sworn . . . was I right?"

"I'm not about to admit what I'm packing to you."

"Then I am." Alistair chuckled. Then he thought more about it and frowned. "The night of the fire, I could have sworn I saw you drag Charlie out the other side of the house."

"You mean, you assumed I had. You were right, but you couldn't have seen it. As I recall, you were a little busy at the time."

"Charlie, take this away from me." He tore off the necklace. As Charlie did as he was asked, Alistair blinked again, and this time, focusing his gaze, he easily saw what was beneath Caleb's jacket, including a chain of his own. He frowned. "I've been having headaches for a while. Something to do with my eyes."

"I'd say it's something to do with your brain. If Rebecca got on that ship without you, I don't envy the sett down you're going to receive when you finally get to New York."

"Do you think it's the gem?" Charlie asked, ignoring Caleb. "Maybe it's causing you problems."

"It's only when I'm not wearing it that I have this ability."

"Gem? What's a gem got to do with anything? And what ability are we talking about?"

"Maybe you're going through some new kind of change," Charlie proffered, ignoring Caleb again.

"Hello. Still in the room here."

"Did this happen to your father?" Alistair asked him.

"Did what happen? What's going on?"

"If I focus my gaze right now, I can see through your jacket. I can see all your weapons, even your bones." Alistair blinked several times, an amazed look on his face.

Caleb crossed his arms over his chest. "What do you mean?"

"Your father—do you recall him ever having blackouts? Sudden spells? Anything like this before he developed a new ability?"

Caleb frowned. "I have no idea, since I never knew what he was to begin with. I'm sorry, I can't help you there. So the headaches were followed by a blackout, and now you have a new super sense?"

"The ability to see through solid objects, apparently." Alistair shook his head. "I can't believe it myself, but that seems to be what's going on."

"T'would explain things," Charlie said.

"What does a gem have to do with it?"

The other two men exchanged glances. "Charlie, I need to read those journals again, see if there's something I missed."

"Still got 'em all in a crate for ye. Good thing we hadn't thrown them out just yet."

"I only need the ones with the technical notes. Not the personal journals."

Caleb shook his head. "What, you're going to take another sabbatical to study all of Bridgewood's notes again? What about Rebecca? No. You need to get to New York."

Alistair finally looked at him. "And do what? Wait around for the next change to occur? I'm obviously unstable! How can I go to her now, not knowing what I'm going to become?"

"At least send a telegraph. This _is_ the 19th century, for heaven's sake!"

Alistair ignored him and turned to Charlie. "Bring them to the study."

* * *

_October 26, 1853_

_I am in a funk. For several weeks I'd had a modicum of dignity, able to walk the deck in the evenings and eat a bit with the family. I thought I'd made some progress. Then the endless rains and wind began. October is going out with a bang._

Rebecca sucked in a breath and set the journal into the drawer by her bed. She turned off the light. The waves were too big and the swells too unpredictable to write. Trying to do so was not helping. Instead, she closed her eyes and tried what she often did before falling asleep-she remembered. She thought of another windy night—one of sweet mysteries and raging passion. Eventually, she fell into a fitful sleep.

And dreamed of Alistair and the cabin in the woods.

A line of ticklish fire followed the path of his mouth down her neck: hot, wet, bristly. She breathed in his scent, heard the rumble of his chuckle as he found her sensitive spot. Then he moved on to her chin, the dip between her small breasts, and then her breasts themselves. Rebecca gasped.

Nothing and no one had ever prepared her for such a sensual assault. Had someone described it to her, she would have laughed at them. But not now. This was no laughing matter. Her skin was on fire as he laid claim to every inch. His hands followed his lips, and oh, those hands. What magic they could weave! Her breath became ragged, her heart rate increased.

As her dream took on a life of its own, Rebecca could feel herself moving toward something big, something earth-shattering, cataclysmic. Eyes that shown in the dark and a deep, feral growl. And then she was falling, falling . . . .

She awoke on the floor of the cabin. She'd been tossed out of bed with an enormous swell. Someone was banging on the door.

"I'm all right," she managed, and shakily got herself back into the bunk. "All is well." There were other voices in the hallway. The crew no doubt had enough to worry about. Bracing herself with both arms, she clamped her jaw together as another dip began. It was going to be a very long night.

Rebecca quickly learned to appreciate her earlier seasick state, for this storm was something altogether different.

By morning's light, the winds had changed. Now they came from the west. Aunt Helen stopped by briefly to tell her the captain had turned the ship south, adding another two weeks to their voyage.

_Another two weeks_. By then, Rebecca realized her sickness had little to do with the sea.

* * *

**ENGLAND  
**  
"Where is he?"

The innkeeper, a small but thick man in his early fifties by the gray in his hair, pointed rather than led the way. "The small dining room. Bein' loud and talking crazy. He was scaring my customers! I told him we were done serving and he had to go, but he won't budge. I know the man was cleared of everything a long time ago, Sheriff, but some folks are still leery of him. I just don't want no trouble."

Caleb could just see the back of MacGregor's coattails from the doorway. He pulled out his revolver and took a deep breath. "No problem. I'll take care of it." Crossing the main room, he entered the small salon and shut the door, his gun drawn and ready. "What brings you to town, MacGregor? Not that you don't have a right to be here, but I'm not very amenable to you terrorizing the neighborhood, if you get my meaning."

Alistair raised his head, but just barely. "You won't need that."

Caleb didn't lower the gun. "I'll be the judge of that."

"Judge, jury and executioner. Take your pick. Look, I'm just having a drink. Last time I checked, it wasn't against the law."

"You've had many more than one, by the looks of it. And it's called being a public nuisance."

"The other patrons were drinking, too. I don't see what the problem is."

"There wouldn't normally be one. But _you _drinking scares the hell out of me."

"Not to worry," Alistair slurred. He made an attempt to grab the green stone that blinked in his once freshly starched cravat. He failed. "I have my lucky charm."

"I don't know what you expect that stone will do, but it's time for you to move along. The innkeeper would like to keep his establishment intact tonight."

"It's just that . . . I miss her."

It was the crack in his voice that did it for Caleb. _Ah, hell._ He slid his gun back in the holster, drew out the empty bench next to Alistair and slumped down onto it. "Then what the Sam Dickens are you doing still here? You figure out what you need from those books yet? Pass me that bottle, will ya?" When Alistair did, he poured himself a drink. "Thought you had decided to leave."

"Started to."

"What stopped you? You never sent that wire, did you?"

"I did. It was never answered."

"Then send it again, dammit! Don't give up."

Alistair lifted glassy eyes to his. "What if she won't take me back?"

True. The damage was done. If Rebecca had no idea why MacGregor never boarded that ship, innocent though his reason was, who knew what frame of mind she was in where he was concerned? Caleb grimaced. He wouldn't want to be in his shoes for all the tea in England. As months had now passed, it didn't bode well for the couple. But rather than speak those thoughts, he merely grunted. It was a tough spot. "Can't say I'm not happy you stayed, though. I am. It's better for me."

Alistair's head slumped lower. "Don't . . . need to now."

"What did you say?"

"No . . . need."

"You don't know that. If I'm going to turn into a monster like my father, it could take years. And you promised you'd be here to help."

"You won't."

"Says who? You don't know that. I don't know that."

"Read it in a journal."

Okay, the short cryptic sentences were really starting to annoy him. "MacGregor, look alive. What the hell are you saying?" He grabbed Alistair's shoulders and shook him. "What did you read?"

Alistair blinked open his eyes. "Royce got your mother pregnant before the experiment."

"Bridgewood wrote that in his journal? And you're just telling me this _now?_"

"Just read it. Happy? Let me sleep, you miserable son of a—"

Caleb sucked in a breath. "But this is great! I don't have his screwed up blood?"

"You have his blood, just not his beast blood. You're as human as they come."

Caleb stood with a shout. The innkeeper peeked in the door. He waved him away. "Everything's fine, sir. I'll have him out of here shortly. Not to worry."

Once the man closed the door again, Caleb grabbed Alistair around the chest and heaved him to his feet. "You big, bloody oaf. Why didn't you tell me this sooner?!" He laughed. "You work here is done. Now, get on that ship and grovel if you have to, but go!"

"What if I suddenly grow canines and howl at the moon?"

Caleb clenched his jaw together. "At least give her the choice."

* * *

A week later, Charlie came into the study where Alistair was bent over a stack of books. "That be the last of 'em."

Alistair looked up. They'd hired a crew to help remove all the fire and smoke damaged furniture from the house. While he'd been holed up in the study, Charlie had overseen the cleanup. "Was there much worth saving?" There had been a few items, medical instruments mostly, Alistair wanted to keep, but the rest, by-and-large, mattered little to him.

"A bit. We've moved what we could into the downstairs green room. But what d'ye think of this?" Charlie stood the portrait on end. "It's the only one what survived. The frame's water damaged, but 'tis a family picture and all."

Alistair frowned. Dr. Bridgewood, his young wife, and two young boys stared mutely out at him from a large, ornately carved frame. If he recalled, the boys were fostered, but he had yet to find much information about them. No, they were not his family. Still. "Remove it from the frame. We'll donate it to the local parish. They may want it for their records."

"Aye. I can do that."

By nightfall, Alistair's eyes were already heavy. The coffee Charlie had brought had long since gone cold, but he drank it anyway. There had to be something that mentioned this pattern, but he was nearly to the end of his search. Surely he wasn't the first, of all the old doctor's experimental subjects, to exhibit a new ability so spontaneously. He picked up the next volume. As soon as he opened it, he recognized it from before. It was more of a diary of family matters and such. He was about to set it aside when Charlie stopped in to say goodnight.

"Oh, an here's that portrait." He handed him a rolled canvas.

"Thank you." Alistair reached for it and realized there was writing on the back. "What's this? An inscription?" He unrolled it, front side down, onto his desk.

"Edmund Eugene Bridgewood, Amanda Rose—"

"Royce D. and Douglas M?" Charlie read over his shoulder. "_Royce?_ Gor! Ye think it be the same one?"

Alistair's brows met in the middle. "How many people do you know with the first name of Royce?" Alistair rubbed his thumb across the names of the boys. "Yes, I already figured that out from another diary."

Charlie snapped his fingers. "That's how he knew about the dumbwaiter and the basement entrance."

"Because he grew up at Bridgewood, yes. Caleb was able to confirm it."

Charlie squinted at the painting. "Don't look much like 'im, though."

"The boys were very young in this picture."

"But who be the other?"

"Douglas M? I wish I knew."

"Perhaps ye should re-read them family journals again."

Alistair looked over at the pile of notebooks and the one he'd been about to set down. "I guess I'd better."

Two days later, and missing Rebecca something awful, he sat by the fire pouring over the books again. How she loved research! She would have enjoyed digging through the diaries for clues. Now it was just a loathsome chore. He picked up another. It was from the early days of Bridgewood's marriage and had been a somewhat interesting glimpse inside the man's mind before it became so twisted. He was about to turn a page when something caught his eye.

_August 21, 1809  
…the way Old Marley beat the boy, I could hardly turn him away. Besides, 'Manda thought it twould be good for Royce to have a brother his same age._

A brother. Royce's brother—Douglas M. Alistair sat up straight. Old _Marley?_ How'd he miss that?

Charlie came in for a nightcap. "I'll be headin' into town later. If you need anythin', best tell me now. Oh, did you find something interestin' in that book?"

"Charlie, remember the family portrait with the inscription on the back?"

"You was tryin' to figure out who the boys were and one of them was that beast."

"Yes. The other was 'Douglas M.'" He looked up at his friend. "I believe it might have been Douglas Marley."

"Marley?"

"Bridgewood introduced me to Georgiana. I always thought it odd he had a such a fondness for her. Could it be that was because she was practically a granddaughter to him?" Alistair stabbed a finger at the journal. "Georgiana had a different father than her brother; I remember her telling me that. She was adopted by Jonathan's father. It was a mixed family."

"So she wasn't originally a Marley."

"No, but Jonathan was. That would make him the son of Douglas Marley."

"An if'n old Doc Bridgewood experimented on the first boy . . . ."

"He most likely experimented on the second."

"Saints preserve us! What happened to Douglas?"

Alistair frowned. "I remember her telling me he died. That's why the siblings were all each other had."

"That be good, then."

"Where's that newspaper you got for me? The one from New York?"

"The animal-like killings in Central Park. Ye dismissed it at the time as most likely a bear. Now, ye think—"

"I think there could be a new beast in their midst."

"Well, hell. This changes things."

"It certainly does. Charlie, first thing in the morning, book us on the next ship to New York. We've got another killer to catch." And the people he loved could be in grave danger.


	17. Chapter 17

_A/N – These 6k+ word chapters are killing me! Sorry for the late posting. I guess Saturday is the new Friday, lol._

**Chapter 17**

Rebecca pulled the scarf tighter around her neck. Even in the enclosed coach, she could see her breath. Apparently, winter in New York started early. She wasn't used to the bitter cold. Taking a cue from the locals, she'd ditched her frilly laces and silks in favor of ever more practical wools—and layers of them. It was fine with her. They not only kept her warm but served to camouflage her burgeoning middle, the growth of which was alarmingly fast and inconvenient. Aunt Helen, the first to realize her constant sickness on the ship had a more land-locked explanation, had not only kept it quiet but generously offered to let out hems on one condition—that she promise not to seek the services of an abortion doctor, which she'd read somewhere were prevalent in the underground of the city. Helen had even donated some of her own clothing to the cause. But it wasn't enough, and her aunt's ability to do such stealthy activities was starting to terrify them both. On more than one occasion in the last several weeks they'd explored the city under the guise of 'needing a bit of fresh air,' but they'd yet to find a suitable place. No, it was time to take matters into her own hands and find a place to live and work.

"How should I present myself?" Rebecca had asked her.

"We'll just say you are a widow."

"Say?"

"Imply, then, yes. He died in battle." Helen avoided her eyes.

The mysterious 'he.' "But it's peacetime, Aunt. There are no battles currently being fought."

"Oh, piffle. Accidents still happen. Your uncle Hayward was killed on a peace-time mission, you know."

She didn't, but Rebecca just frowned and let her ramble on. She hated to be untruthful, even if it was for her own protection, but they were quickly running out of time. She had to find at least temporary lodging. She'd deal with any fallout later. Today, while Helen took Isabella shopping to distract her, Rebecca hailed a carriage a couple of blocks over and headed to a completely different part of Manhattan.

Unlike the business district in which her father had purchased a townhouse, this section of town bustled with carriages, pedestrians and vendors hawking their wares at the top of their lungs. Rebecca stared out the window, fascinated. How different from their calm little shire in England! No, here there were no rolling meadows, no solitary beaches or peaceful hillsides—just mountains of buildings and rivers of carts. Everyone was hurrying somewhere, and the life of the city both surprised and delighted her. At the edge of a fashionable trade street, she spotted an elderly woman with an entourage of companions all dressed as if for high tea and walking a pack of three small dogs. The woman's outfit seemed immensely impractical—especially the hat with a feather that blew sideways in the wind—and yet she ambled on in great style. Rebecca smiled. The city was as exhilarating as it was overwhelming. New York had to be the busiest place on earth—and a good place to get lost. Just what she wanted.

With that thought in mind, she pulled her gaze away from the pedestrians and studied the shop windows. She banged on the roof for the driver to halt. "I'd like to get out here, please."

"But Miss, the modiste ye wanted to visit is two more blocks up."

"That's fine. I-I need the exercise." She hadn't really planned on visiting the dress maker, anyway. It had just been an excuse to get to the area, which she'd overheard a parlor maid on the street corner mention was a decent section of town in which to live.

"Are ye sure? It's blowin' a might fierce out here. 'Bout time for our first snow of the season, I'm thinkin'."

Rebecca startled at the familiar brogue. So like Charlie's, it made her chest tighten in a painful grip. Dear Charlie! She wondered how he fared. He would have found New York a great adventure, she was certain. She shook herself. Thoughts of Charlie only brought on thoughts of Alistair, and that she must avoid at all costs. She placed a gloved hand across her middle.

"Miss?" The driver's voice brought her back to the present.

"Oh, yes, thank you, sir, but I'd still like to get out here."

"As ye wish." The driver pulled the coach to the side and Rebecca left the protection of the enclosed carriage for the open air. She waited until he continued down the street before turning into the icy wind. "And I thought England was cold," she murmured and yanked the scarf up over her mouth.

Just outside a book shop was a bulletin board with several notices on it, one sign boldly declaring 'Room for Rent' in large letters. It was what had caught her eye. She was about to approach it when a commotion down the block caught her attention. Barking dogs and an angry screech came from the direction of the elderly woman as two young punks ran past her snatching the reticule from under her arm as they did so.

It took Rebecca a moment to realize what she'd just witnessed. When she did, the two boys were just about to her position. She stuck out a foot and tripped the one with the purse, sending him flying off the boarded walkway and into the street.

"Oh, no, you don't!" she yelled as the boy made another grab for the bag in his effort to get up. She was faster. Rebecca stepped on the drawstrings, thankful for the extra weight for once, and he lost his grip. Someone shouted for a police officer.

Rebecca looked at the boy's grimy face and clothes and felt a pang of sympathy. That could be her in the not-to-distance future if she wasn't careful. "Get up," she urged him impatiently. "Go." When he just stared at her, she tried again. "Off with you, boy. Quickly." At that, the second boy yelled for him to leave the bag and run, which they both did.

Carefully stepping down onto the street, Rebecca picked up the pretty handbag and dusted it off before carrying it back to its elderly owner with a smile. "Here you go, Ma'am. I hope it wasn't damaged."

The silver haired woman stared at her with wide eyes then, with a nod to one of her younger attendants, continued on her way with her nose in the air. The attendant took the bag and offered her a coin.

Rebecca's mouth dropped open. What an odd reaction! "You're welcome," she murmured under her breath, refusing the token. She shook her head after they passed and realized not only had her scarf come loose but her overcoat had opened leaving the shape of her stomach, still small but definitely not flat, visible through her form-fitting skirt. As she had held out the bag with her ringless hand, she realized what the woman must have seen her as—the unwed, pregnant female that she was.

She blushed. Such a reaction would have been expected back home, but New York was supposed to be above such social divides. Perhaps America wasn't so foreign. She sighed and returned to her task—and the board that had originally caught her attention. There were actually several notices for rooms to rent.

Another woman was inspecting the board as she approached. Rebecca felt her gaze and was about to tilt her chin defensively when the woman spoke.

"I wouldn't bother with Mrs. Bartholomew. She won't hire anyone younger or prettier than her, which you certainly are. She doesn't trust her husband as far as she can throw him," she said with a grin. "So that's one definitely out. The Langley's are a nice older couple," the woman continued, pointing to the second notice, "but they only want renters with lots of meat on their bones—they make them work hard for their room and board. And, well, Lord Rutledge is a definite no."

Curious now, Rebecca couldn't stop herself from asking, "Why is that?"

"He's a womanizer and a lush."

"Oh." Rebecca's hopes started to plummet. That only left one ad on the board.

"This one, however," the woman pulled the last notice down, "is just perfect for you, I think!"

"Single room, clean and neat," Rebecca read aloud. "Reliable transport nearby." She frowned. "But it doesn't say how much it is per month."

"Negotiable. Are you on a very tight budget?"

"Of sorts. I have a small amount of funds set aside, but I'm actually looking for work, as well," she admitted. "Until I get a job, I won't know how much I can afford."

"Where are you staying right now?"

"With my father and sister uptown. But I intend to be out of there by month's end, no later."

"Hmm." The woman looked her over again. "Things not going well at home, eh? Well, you sound well educated. I presume you have good written communication skills?"

"Pardon? Oh, absolutely. My father was a barrister. My sister and I were tutored at home. It wasn't a fancy education but it was enough that my father frequently hired me to help him with his research—which I loved, by the way."

"I bet you did." The woman smiled at her. "So a writing job requiring some amount of research might be just the thing?"

"Oh, yes! I could definitely do that."

"You're hired."

_"What?"_

The woman tapped the separate employment listing for a publisher's assistant. "The paper belongs to me, as does the room."

"Oh, my goodness."

The woman eyed her critically again. "A lot of folks wouldn't be caught dead working for a female business owner, but I have a thirty percent share of the market in this end of town and am able to pay my bills. The wage is not as high as the big publishing houses, but you won't starve. And the room," she nodded toward the building's upper floors, "is just overhead."

"Is the entire building yours, then?" Rebecca asked, startled to meet such a strong and successful businesswoman.

"I like to keep everything close," she nodded. "Feels more like family that way." She tilted her head at Rebecca. "You want to see it?"

"Oh, yes, please. I'm Rebecca, by the way. Rebecca Reynolds," she blurted out, completely forgetting the discussion she'd had with her aunt about using a fake name.

"Nice to meet you, Rebecca Reynolds. I'm Kathryn Heavensby, but my friends all call me Kate."

Kate led her inside through the bookstore to a cluttered room with a large printing press in the back. Three women, all under the age of thirty, manned the desks and press. She only had time to smile at them before Kate took her through to the back where there was a small private courtyard with flower pots and benches.

"Kind of cold to enjoy this time of year, but you'll appreciate it later," Kate said. "The best part is," she led her back inside to a staircase, "the room is on the second floor, so you won't have a lot of climbing to do."

She hadn't even thought of that!

"Well, what do you think?"

Cluttered, but clean. And extremely friendly. "I think it's perfect!"

"Then come. I'll introduce you around, then we'll sign some papers and you can move right in."

"Oh, but." Rebecca paused. "There's just . . . one thing you should know."

Kate waited expectantly.

Rebecca straightened her shoulders and put a hand over her belly. "I'm pregnant. A-and single."

Kate turned sympathetic eyes on her. "Widow?"

"Uh, no. Not exactly."

"Runnin' from someone?"

She sucked in a breath. She'd have run _to _him, given half a chance. She dipped her head. "No, Ma'am. He—he just . . . decided not to come with me to New York."

"Doesn't know, huh?" Kate let out a breath. "Seen it enough times. And none of that 'Ma'am' stuff. It's just Kate. Well, you look strong for such a tiny thing. Fortunately, unlike many of my male counterparts, I believe a woman can do anything she sets her mind to, even under difficult circumstances."

"I'm a very hard worker."

"With a sense of justice, too. Saw what you did with those urchins."

Rebecca looked up. "I let them go."

Kate nodded. "It can be a cruel world out there, especially for the unfortunate. Seems you have both compassion and strength. I'll take that over a list of glowing references. Far be it from me to turn a single, pregnant woman into the streets."

"I don't want you to think I'm desperate. We only recently arrived in the city from London. I _have _family, but—"

"But they don't know either, do they?"

Rebecca shook her head. "Only my aunt. I haven't yet found a way to tell my father or my sister."

That made up Kate's mind. "Desperate is as desperate does," she said matter-of-factly. "I was forced into marriage at 18 for my family's sake. My husband, God bless his lout-ish soul, was a drunk and a gambler. When he lost, he drank. And he usually lost. Eventually, he started blaming me for it and when he drank, he hit. After three years of that, I walked out the door and never looked back. Since my family refused to take me in, I had to fend for myself. I hope your situation isn't as bad as all that."

"Oh, no. My family . . . they just wouldn't understand. And the man I . . . loved . . . will always hold my heart."

"Aw, sweetie. God bless ya. Men do funny things sometimes, don't they? Who can understand 'em? That's why we need each other and to learn to become financially independent. You never know what can happen. You're in America now. We don't have the constraints of the aristocracy as much here—not that it doesn't exist, mind you—but there are more freedoms, more opportunities, especially for women. Don't get me wrong. I don't hate all men. I believe there are still good ones out there. But for me, I decided long ago I wouldn't be beholdin' to any man ever again. I can make my own way in this world. Woman power, yes?"

"Yes." Rebecca decided right then and there that Kate Heavensby and she were going to become the best of friends. She laughed as the older woman swung one arm around her shoulders and spread the other out wide.

"Welcome to the New World!"

* * *

The New World consisted of pleasant days working in the cramped but efficient office and even more pleasant evenings playing cards or other games Kate and her friends, the other single, independent women who worked in the office, had taught her to play. There were long afternoons spent at the nearby public library doing research for Kate's newest articles, and quiet Saturdays spent talking and playing with Kate's Jack Russell Terrier, Jack. On one such evening, the ladies all relaxed around the hearth with their evening tea.

"I can't help but wonder just how many Jack Russell terriers are named Jack," Rebecca wondered aloud as Kate happened by.

Kate bent down to the dog pounding his tale against the floorboards and rubbed him under the chin. "Why, Jack, I do believe our Miss Reynolds is trying to stir up trouble. Jack is a perfectly respectable name, don't you think?"

The dog made an answering whuffle.

"It is, but it just lacks . . . I don't know, creativity? Especially coming from a writer."

Kate laughed. "I'll have you know, a writer gets tired of having to be creative. And Jack suits him just fine. Besides, it reminds me of someone I used to know."

"Oh? Do tell. Who was that?" It wasn't often she got personal glimpses into the woman who was fast becoming like an older sister to her.

"I don't know why I should bother to tell you, seeing as how you insulted my poor baby—"

"I think I insulted _you_, actually, but I still love you. Please, continue."

Kate pouted, then took the chair next to her. It had been a long day. Rebecca handed her a cup of tea and she sniffed at it. "Not like English tea, is it?"

"It does the job. Spill."

Kate sighed. "Long story, but I once knew a Bow Street Runner by that name. I thought he was very handsome. But then, I was only ten."

_Jack?_ Rebecca choked on her tea. It couldn't be.

"You all right?"

"Yes, fine. Sorry. You . . . lived in London at one time?"

"Sure, and hasn't everyone? My father had debt problems and frequently got into trouble—hence my familiarity with the Runner. I think he took pity on me." She sighed. "We eventually had to leave the city. By then I was in my fourteenth year and had a terrible case of first love. You know the rest of the story. After I left my husband, I bought Jack from a family in my apartment complex. Their dog had had puppies. It was my first year in the city by myself. He keeps me company and reminds me that there are still decent people in the world."

Although Rebecca had never asked, she guessed Kate was in her late thirties, possibly older. Jack Billings would be younger than that, so it couldn't have been the same Jack. Still, the name drew her mind once again to Alistair.

"Are you even listening to me?"

"What?"

"You haven't heard a word I've said for the last ten minutes, have you?"

"Did I drift away again?"

Kate tsked. "Wouldn't be the first time. Your man?"

Rebecca straightened. "No, of course not. He's . . . he's old news."

"Uh-huh. Old news is still news."

Rebecca sipped her tea and tried to ignore her. Then she looked over at her friend. "Those early years must have been very difficult for you."

Kate smirked at the evasive tactic but let it go. "Sure, but we managed. Didn't we, Mary?"

Mary Bristol, Kate's longest employee, looked up from her crocheting with a grin. "That's right. We were a fearsome pair back then, we were."

Mary, Rebecca had learned, had also been beaten by an abusive husband. The two met on the streets. Two years later they'd been joined by Constance Meriwether, whom Kate had found rummaging through the garbage bins in the alley next to the stop. And then there was Rose. If she had another name, no one knew it. All she had learned from Kate was the fact that Rose had worked as a governess for a wealthy family and had become pregnant during her tenure and cast out. What was implied but never said was that the children's father had done it. Her son, Bennie, now five, was always underfoot and kept everyone on their toes. Rose was the last to join in their conversations but the first to offer Rebecca advice about her pregnancy. "You're carrying high. It's a boy, for sure," she had told her on more than one occasion.

"Speaking of being fearsome," Kate said cryptically. "I have a task for you tomorrow, if you're up to it."

"Yes, certainly," Rebecca immediately responded, rubbing a kink out of her neck.

"Well, it may be a might difficult. I need you to dig up some background on a Frederick M. Steinberg."

"Steinberg. Related at all to our mayoral candidate?"

"Exactly. His great-grandfather. It won't be easy to find. I'm sure the family has buried any and all information on their infamous ancestor."

"Why is that?"

"He has a skeleton or two in the closet, which I fully intend to exploit. Just see what you can find. I would be very grateful. You're so much better at research than I. But there's a need for urgency with the election coming up, you understand."

"I'll head downtown first thing in the morning."

"Sounds good." Kate got to her feet with a grunt of pain.

"Are you all right?"

"Nothing a nightcap can't cure. G'night, ladies."

Rebecca watched her leave with a frown. Kate was too young to be having such pains. Thinking of pain, she rubbed her growing belly and the sore spot on one side that the baby kept kicking.

"Too big," Rose said from the corner of the room. Bennie had fallen asleep on her lap.

"Pardon?"

"You sure you know when you got pregnant?"

"Within a few days, yes."

"By the looks of you, you're further along than you think."

* * *

Alistair stood on the precipice of a building studying the city. As with him, it never slept, even in the wee hours of the morning. Shop owners loaded their carts for the day as drunks left the bars to seek their bed. Everyone seemed to be going somewhere and to someone, except for him. He was a man alone in time—alone and lonely in the middle of a vast and thriving metropolis. Oh, he liked the anonymity. The roof lines were his friends; the dark—his place of sanctuary. But New York teemed with the eager, the rich, the hopeful and the destitute, all vying for the space and right to breathe. If only he could, too.

He fingered the small lead box in his pocket that held the gem. It was dangerous not to wear it with so many people in close proximity. He only took it off for brief periods when he needed his extra senses. It made hunting in the city immensely more complex. Not that he'd had much luck so far.

The denseness of the streets suffocated; the constant din—a drain on his overly raw nerves. Despite coming here to find Jonathan, only one heartbeat mattered, only one breath of life: _Rebecca_. That she was near was no consolation. He didn't know exactly where. He'd located the townhouse her father had purchased; he'd seen Isabella come and go on more than one occasion, but no Rebecca. Where was she? Who was she with? Did she laugh? Did she cry? Did she ache for him as he ached for her?

He thought he could forget her, leave her be. What a mistake.

Sunrise began as a corner of light on the distant horizon. Time to go. Like everyone else, he had a job to do.

Four blocks away, Alistair stood at the corner of a busy street. He hated the crush of people, but he had no choice. Somewhere out there was another beast. He drew a deep breath. He didn't mind the cold; it made him feel alive. Unfortunately, his leads were as cold as the frost on the ground. Where to start?

Central Park, the large area of land recently acquired for a public area in the center of town, was just north of where he stood and still under construction. As that was the area where one of the original bodies had been found, perhaps he should start there again. He turned that direction and was about to cross the street when he heard it—a familiar heartbeat.

Alistair froze. _Rebecca?_ It was the morning 'rush hour' and hundreds of people were arriving for their jobs at the various businesses, lining the boardwalks and roads in every direction. He swung his head around, concentrating. One path led down to the docks and the busy shipping area. She wouldn't be there. Another led to the poorer immigrant section of the city. Still another, to the business district. Two blocks down, a woman walked a small, white dog and turned a corner . He listened again. It was fading. No! She was somewhere close by! The urge to cry out her name was very strong but he managed to squelch it. He'd made his choice; he had to live with it. She was better off without him. If only he could know that she was well.

He rubbed a hand down his face. _Oh God, Rebecca._ How he missed her! But the heartbeat was gone. Like strangers passing in the night, they'd missed each other once again. He tipped his hat into the wind and headed toward the park.

* * *

After taking Jack for his morning walk, Rebecca spent the rest of the day closeted in the city's multi-story library, but after hours and hours digging through old records, she had almost nothing to show for it. She headed back to the office more frustrated than anything.

She'd just put the small book in Kate's office, the only evidence she'd even found of the long deceased Mr. Steinberg, and took her seat behind her desk when the front bell rang as a customer entered. The assumed it was a bookstore patron and ignored it until the footsteps kept coming toward the back.

"So, it's true. She said you had your reasons, but I didn't believe it."

Rebecca looked up. Isabella stood in the center of the isle.

The other women glanced up from their work. Without thinking, Rebecca got to her feet. "_Isabella?_"

Isabella gasped. _"Oh, my God."_

Rebecca looked down at the clear evidence of her advancing pregnancy. Isabella had started stumbling backward in disbelief. She ran after her. "Isabella, wait!" She took her by the arm and dragged her into Kate's office, the only other room with a door.

"H-how? Why?"

Rebecca leaned back against the door for support. "I think the 'how' is rather obvious, don't you? And if you think about it really hard you can come up with the 'why.' I'm doing this for _you_."

"For me?"

"Yes. For you. Imagine explaining your pregnant, unwed sister to a prospective husband. There is still a stigma—even here in America."

Isabella's mouth dropped open. "I thought you were just still mad at me and Papa. Do you think me so shallow? You're-you're my only sister! How does disappearing out of my life help me? I need you!"

Rebecca swallowed a pang of regret. How she'd longed for her sister over the last few months. But her plan was good. It was right. "Aunt Helen said she'd stay a while longer."

"As if that makes everything all right. Wait. The seasickness on the ship—"

"Wasn't all seasickness, no. But we only figured that out toward the end."

"No wonder you were so upset on the ship! And she's been helping you?"

"We're both helping _you._"

"You just couldn't trust me with the truth," she said, bitterly.

"Izzy, that's not it. I always planned to leave—you know that. But once I realized I was pregnant, I had no choice. I didn't want to burden any of you."

"But Papa—"

"Papa would've forced me into marriage with the first eligible man that came along, and you know it. No, I'm better off here, and so are you."

"Working like a common laborer? Your fingers are stained."

Rebecca curled her nails into her hands. "It's honest work and I make a decent wage. My life is good."

"And you're soon to be a mother! How will you raise your child?"

"Like other single mothers do! I have friends here, Iz. Rose has a little boy, herself. We make do. It's a decent life."

"What about the father? Does he even know?"

"You mean, what about Alistair? Who else would it be, Izzy?"

Isabella shook her head. "I don't know since I don't even know who _you _are anymore."

"He let me leave without him. He-he deserted me. I wrote, but he never wrote back. I would have told him if he'd made the slightest effort but he hasn't, so it's over. It doesn't matter. I can do this by myself."

"Then let us help. Come home."

"No. And you mustn't come back. Someone might see us and put two and two together." They had a strikingly similar appearance, if not personality.

"What about Papa? This move has been hard on him."

"He isn't sick, is he?"

"He's lost weight. If you're that worried, stop by and visit."

"You know I can't do that. Not now." Maybe not ever. "Papa wouldn't understand."

"Family is family. He loves you, Becca. We both do. Maybe you should think about that."

She turned to leave. Rebecca put a hand on her arm. "You won't tell him, will you?"

Izzy looked at her, the hurt clear in her eyes. "No, I won't tell him. But I'm not promising to stay away, either. You'll just have to live with that."

"Is everything all right in here?" Kate Heavensby entered the room without knocking and, seeing Rebecca's face, automatically placed herself between the two women.

Isabella straightened. "Perfectly. I was just leaving."

"Iz—"

Kate put a hand on Rebecca's arm after Isabella left the room. "Your sister?" At Rebecca's tearful nod, she said, "Let her go."

"I think she hates me now."

"Never. She'll come around, eventually."

Rebecca nodded. That's what she was afraid of.

"Don't think about it right now." Kate ordered. "Go-get some rest. I hear you put in a long day."

Rebecca rubbed a hand over her face. "I didn't find much, I'm afraid. I dug everywhere I could think to dig. This is all I got." She handed her the small book.

Kate cracked it open. "A diary?"

"I know, nothing historical. I'm sorry."

"Oh, but this is great!"

"But it's just his personal journal, his own thoughts. He could have written anything."

"Doesn't matter. In some cases, a letter or diary is all we have from the past. It becomes the history we know."

"Written from his own perspective, though."

"Certainly. But not necessarily false. People rarely lie in journals, dear. No one writes such a thing to intentionally mislead. You just record your thoughts about events. It's incredibly rich historical evidence, and sometimes all we have.

* * *

Alistair hung his hat on the coat rack. "What do we have on the schedule for today?"

Charlie put his hands on his hips at his friend's somber tone. "The usual. Three appointments this morning and several this afternoon. Broken bones and such. Two returning for checkups. I'm assumin' ye didn't find the evidence ye were looking for last night?"

If only he had. "Oh, I found evidence all right. Of an animal. A lioness, to be exact. Escaped from an import dealer. She was set to go to a local zoo, but got loose. The owner of the import business tried to cover it up. She attacked a lone jogger in the park because she was hungry. That's all."

"So maybe we was wrong."

Alistair had to admit the possibility. They had yet to locate Jonathan or his sister.

"Well, in the meantime, we're making money and you're buildin' up quite the reputation. They're gettin' younger and prettier, too."

"What? Who?"

"The patients. Take yer pick, Doc. The world is becomin' yer oyster."

* * *

Rebecca made every effort to keep up the pace, but after months of working for Kate she was feeling it in her back. And she'd become alarmingly large in the gut. Even her stretch marks had stretch marks. Spring was making its first appearance in the city and she was beginning to get anxious to deliver. If only it weren't still some time away.

"Seen it before. Either you're taking on too much water, or there's more 'n one babe in there," Rose told her.

Rebecca gasped. The baby had certainly been active, but _two?_

"Two, three. Who knows?"

"Oh, my." Rebecca sat down.

"Your back still hurting?" Kate walked into the room.

"A little. But I'm perfectly capable of doing the work, Kate. I won't let you down, I promise."

"Oh, bother. I have more articles to write than I have space in my flier to fit them. You need to take it easy. You know," she leaned over her, "Rose is right. It would be best if you saw a doctor."

_Doctor?_ Just the word brought an ache to her heart. "I suppose you're right, but—"

"My friend, Gennie, said there's a new one in town," Mary piped up. "Has quite a good reputation. From what she says, he's also single and not too hard on the eyes, if you know what I mean."

Rebecca rolled her eyes. "Just what every successful man is looking for—a single, pregnant female."

Kate shrugged. "You never know. The world is full of all types. Some men would welcome a ready-made family."

But she wouldn't welcome a doctor as a husband. At least, she didn't think she could. Six months and her feelings were still too raw. Just the thought of Alistair brought a tear to her eye. It seemed like she was crying a lot these days. How was he getting along? Had anything bad happened to him? Surely if there had been news of an unusual situation, even from a remote location like Hillshire, it would reach the New York papers. No. No news was probably good news.

"I'll get you his name and location. Just promise me you'll go. I don't want to be responsible for having to deliver a baby on my storeroom floor because neither of us had any idea how far along you were."

"Okay, okay. I'll go see him." Eventually. What could it hurt? It might even relieve some of her fears that the baby wasn't normal in every way—not that she had any idea what to expect. This was Alistair's child they were talking about, after all.

Two weeks later, the ache in her back made it impossible to sleep. What little she got was spent dreaming of Alistair. Kate had taken one look at her and set up a cot in her office so she wouldn't have to climb stairs. She's rarely been out of it since. Finally, mustering her strength, she gathered all the pretend confidence she could and went in search of the address Genny had supplied. The practice was so new, there wasn't even a name plate on the door. It said, simply, 'Doctor's Office."

* * *

Alistair picked up the copy of The Times that had been delivered that morning and he had yet to read. He was anxious to check it. After they closed, it was his practice to scan it from front to back searching for something—anything—that would indicate the location of either new maulings or of Jonathan Marley, who seemed to have disappeared into thin air.

There was an article on the recent influx of immigrants from England. He stopped reading and shut his eyes. _Rebecca_. How often she'd visited him in his dreams!

Feeling his heart begin to speed up, he fumbled for the lead box and dumped the stone into his hand. There were times he had to keep it in its lead-lined box to enable him to use his extra senses—a plan which had become extremely useful in his practice and had begun to garner him some professional attention. The extra vision let him see beneath the surface and make early and sound diagnoses. But the green stone was also a constant reminder of what he'd lost and who he really was—just an animal on a leash. Its powers kept him in control, but there were times, especially at night, when he wanted nothing more than to fling it across the room and howl. What he wouldn't give for just a glimpse of her! Or even Isabella, who was more likely to be out and about on the streets of New York.

"Anything new?" Charlie, asked, entering the back office.

"Nothing definitive."

"How 'bout the society pages? Do ye check there for word of the Misses Reynolds?"

Alistair stared him down.

"Ach now, Doc. Don't be that way. She expected ye to come. Don't ya think ya need to tell her ye did?"

They'd had this conversation before, numerous times. It only led to heartache. He stood. "Time to go home." The living quarters Charlie had found for them when they first moved to the city were only in the next building, making midnight calls convenient, but for Charlie's sake he tried to keep strict office hours.

They both turned at the sound of the front office door opening. He looked at his watch and sighed. It never failed that someone tried to walk in right as they were set to close up for the night.

"I'll get it!" Charlie said, and ran to the front.

After a few minutes, the silence from the outer office became deafening.

* * *

Rebecca checked the address one more time. The lights were still on, but she knew she was late. She'd taken a cab, but he let her off at the street corner, and it had been much harder to walk the last little bit than expected. At this rate, she wasn't sure she could manage the walk back. She might have to beg for a few minutes in the waiting room if the doctor refused to see her. It wouldn't be the first time she was willing to beg.

She was about the press open the door when, one building down, the sound of bells caught her attention. A wind chime tinkled in the evening breeze. The sound nearly sent her to her knees. _Oh, God!_ Grabbing the door handle for support, she panted at the rush of pain and memories that brought on. When she could breathe once more, she tried again. She pressed the open and was greeted immediately by a gentleman assistant.

The clothes were different, but she'd never forget that swag of blonde hair and cocky grin.

"If it's a patient, let them in, Charlie. I have time," a very familiar deep voice called from somewhere within.

Rebecca's eyes swung past Charlie's arrested gaze to the tall, dark-haired man just entering the reception room.

"Charlie?" the doctor prodded.

"Oh, my God. _Alistiar!_"

* * *

_A/N – Because many of you are very intelligent and actually take the time to look things up, I'll admit right now to fudging a bit on the timeline of the creation of Central Park, which wasn't finished for several more years. But you know, Central Park and Beauty and the Beast, it had to be done! Hope you enjoyed this chapter but I know you'll all be chomping at the bit for the next, so just so you know—I'm off to write it! lol_


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